Even the less outwardly temperamental Artist still has at best a slightly tangential relationship with the real world. This is because the real world gets in the way of the important business of life- namely showing off, daydreaming and coming up with ideas. Ideas that are equally as likely to be strokes of unparalleled genius as the nonsensical gibberings of the seriously unhinged. Not that anyone is allowed to ever imply they're the latter. Then the defences go up again. Whether that means sulky moods or screaming, the result is the same. Everyone must rush round until things are safely back to normal again. "Normal" in this case meaning that The Artist is safely insulated from workaday hassle. Do not expect such favours in return though. For someone so sensitive to their own treatment, the Artist has a peculiar blind-spot when it comes to the feelings of anyone else at all.
This is so stupid, what i was thinking i can't be sure but i think it's safe to say that i've done what is always lurking around the corner (in my case) and succumbed to a different personality eating me up. It's OK i don't mind being a chameleon it means no one can ever get TOO close. What i am i don't know, but i am certain that i don't have the right state of mind or right state of arse to sit and type my thoughts into a computer, anymore! Any motherfuckers who read this my new outlook says fuck you for being so stupid and reading my brain drivel but a tiny fighting scrap of old me says i like you, man.
Until i change i am happy leaving all these thoughts swirling in the ravine scattered with skeleton trees and vultures, that is, my BLACK, BLACK SOUL.
MWA
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