I have been drinking and reading all day.
After so much reading, I can’t help to dislike all those writers expressing themselves in such a glorious way, with long experienced words.
It makes me realize why I cannot paint.
I have nothing to say.
I have never been in Europe, I can’t speak German, I have never been alone, I have never fought for something in my life.
I have never lived.

I lie on my bed everynight and I fantasize about what I could do. I could save money and travel, I could study another carreer, I could save to get a place, I could paint, I could play, and then nothing, and everything is blur and every option is gone and I have done nothing.
There’s only misery and I realize also that I cannot get any help.

And my body is heavy on the blanket, and my breath is slow.
And then I am aware of my small body growing, and the man’s voice on the tv, and the light through eyelids, and everything is so immensely painful.