So much for passion.

"All man's troubles come from not knowing how to sit still in one room." - Blaise Pascal

The rough, cheap carpet molds my fleshy skin into a patchwork of hives. My legs spread akimbo with my iPhone in hand, taking pictures of them via Instagram. I had just finished sorting dirty and clean laundry. For three hours.

Is air-drumming to ‘Last Friday Night’ the life of an artist? Is wishing to be Don Drapers new female, touch-me-not client at Sterling Cooper part of the dreamy, dazed artistic mind?

I left everything incomplete today. I drifted past my Coca-Cola painting a few times before my 2pm breakfast. I saw a centipede-like bug in the upstairs washroom last night, so I’ve refused to clean up.

Inexplicably, I lie here dazed and sweating, with a bare state of mind. I preach to myself – everyday – that today is my last. I call myself an artist. I call myself a writer. Yet, I find myself lying down on my back.  I feel.

Stuck.

Maybe I’m in a self-made purgatory.

I need an excise plan – goals, statements, declarations, anything! to get me out of this slump, I figure.

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