My fingers are covered with black and yellow paint. This is War. A war against paint. A war against myself. I fight the urge to surrender. I’m doubtful I will survive. I’ve been in battle for hours. I’m tired. Exhausted. Victory is nowhere in sight. This painting is defeating me. My confidence is lost. I’m dazed and confused. Lost in the gunsmoke. Wandering through the fog. Destination still unknown. I stare at the painting. I peer into it’s soul. Nothing. No direction. No inspiration. The same old same. The same tired tricks. No divine inspiration. No creative enlightenment. Just a lonesome stare. I hate every brushstroke. I loathe every line. Yet I protect them. I make them sacred. I should sacrifice them for something better. Erase the page. Start over. Be bold and different and fearless…


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