September 7, 2011
I’m in need of a muse right now, but not a distraction. Lately I’ve been thinking the solution to my problem would be to sit down and write with a woman who I’m not attracted to. A stern but loving young artist who will force me to do what I think I can’t.
It’s crazy how I speak so negatively about women sometimes knowing that I love them so dearly. I love the beautiful ones, the ones that are hurting, the ones in denial, the intelligent ones, the women who are overweight, and the arrogant ones. And the whole time I just keep it moving. I no longer slow down for long enough to open up; I have developed the bad habit of running before things get too difficult. I run because I am scared. I fear that she will become just as deceitful, conniving, and untrustworthy as I am and it will break my heart.
I don’t have any mirrors in my house and I don’t have a woman here either. I have a roof over my head, the floor beneath my feet, and nothing else worth mentioning in between.