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.
In the end we all want something in between right?
We most definitely do.
How do you define that in-between?
I don’t define it. I’m just an artist. I have several questions but no answers.