September 27, 1999: Inner battle, all out war
I wish to take better care of myself. I spend all this time concentrating on them tossing me out—only to ask, how much time do I spend trying to toss them out? My heart doesn’t want to play games. “Deal with purpose,” I keep telling myself. Fantasy is such a wasted sport—like this stupid need to write and paint. It doesn’t work! Most of my recent work is sad. A mile a minute the mind tries to run—only to realize I’m walking.