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People are annoying, they mean well, but they’re annoying. 

“Are you applying for jobs?”, “take a course!”, “What do you wanna do?”.

Nothing, for once, I don’t want to do anything. All I’ve done is work, and now that I want to sit back and review the absolute fuck fest my life has become, everyone is kindly suggesting I “get a job”, as if it’s that easy. 

For context, I’m a freelance artist. In details, prior to the pandemic I was producing live events, then the pandemic hit, and everything flipped upside down. 

I did virtual events here and there, I got picked up by a speakers agency, I do part time work, but somehow that’s still not enough? I pay my bills on time, I got a grant, I’m finally able to rest, and for the first time I feel like I’m not being supported? Yet in the same breath the very same people are asking me to relax. 

Forgive me for being confused but do you want me to work a corporate job, or rest because the two are exclusive. Maybe I’m projecting my fears, but I genuinely feel like I’m being asked if I have a plan B. I feel like people who are not solely artists/freelance, simply don’t understand the amount of work that goes into being freelance. 

It’s not that I don’t want the comfort of having a steady income, but it comes at a hefty price. My sanity is hanging on by a thread these days, the last thing I need is hours in a structure I can’t seem to fold to. 

The other issue at hand is that my father passed and I have to manage his estate which is a full time job in itself. 

I’ve waited for this moment for so long.

I’m really glad I never deleted this page. I’m surprised I even manage to remember my login info. Every now and then I write something here for no one to see, hoping someone will see, but also hoping I die with this secret. 

I look back at my entries, online and offline, to remind me of who I was. Whether it be trauma, undiagnosed ADHD, or whatever else mental concoction my brain has created, I can’t seem to remember my past self unless I read it. 

I think I connect to art whether it be painting, photography, sculpture, writing, because it helps me remember a moment in time. 

So much has changed since the last time I had written. I should write more. I constantly tell myself that. Then I just don’t. So here we are I guess. 

I think the biggest difference between then and now is that I have acknowledged my harm to myself, and the external harm that has continuously lead me to write, and the harm I have caused others. This isn’t a giant boohoo parade, there have been positive outcomes too, and I love writing about my joy. 

I get pleasure in sulking, but I’ve realized the pleasure in accepting and rejoicing in love is much greater and deeper. 

-- Paused because I went on a hunt, found some ~ stuff ~ I’ll jump into that later. --

This year I embark on a new journey. It feels familiar, but it feels right and fresh. This year lacks the toxicity that once filled my life, and if it ever seeps in I will be cautious and act accordingly. 

What a whirlwind 2020 was. What a whirlwind 2021 will be, hopefully the type of whirlwind cotton candy swirls in. 

We always say “time isn’t real” until we’re presented with an expiry date

At a certain time you have to stop

It’s like writing an exam and right when you have your aha moment time begins to run out

The teacher yells “pencils down” and you think if ONLY I thought of this earlier

The test is done, it’s submitted

You wait for the results

I’m drowning

The weeks are going bye

I’m drowning

Time is passing me

The days are longer now

Like molasses

Waning

Exhausting

Sleep is no longer an escape, but a chore

How are these days so long yet so short