I've hit an all time low. I blamed art for ruining my life. I blamed the thing I love-- loved?-- the most, my lifelong passion, for being the bane of my existence. Why of all paths to take, why did it have to be something so hard to succeed in? I feel like I was doomed to fail from the beginning. Because those with true talent, with true promise, at one point or another you would think it would emerge right? I have been drawing and painting since I could pick up a crayon, and it has done nothing for me but send me into debt and teach me what it is to be a failure, to be not good enough, maybe never good enough. My passion isn't strong enough to make a living out of, so why do I bother? Why aim so high as to expect greatness when it is not deserved.

It pains me to read over the thoughts that are spilling intuitively out of my mind. I can't stop to read back, I shouldn't, I wont.

This is a new feeling. This is a dark place. Because no matter where I have been in my life I still had that power to lose myself in whatever I chose to create. I can't do it anymore. If you show me a picture of anything I will draw it and I will draw it well. But it isn't the same. That isn't passion, it isn't genius, or a masterpiece. That is simply honed skill. It isn't enough. It isn't enough to get me by or to help me cope. It is merely a distraction. Right now what I need is a distraction from this, from the pressure I put upon myself to be great and from the hopeless feeling of realizing that perhaps greatness isn't in the cards for me, or at least, not in this way.

This path has rendered itself so deep into life that I can't even see the ground anymore.