y

I've always suffered from a deeply ingrained impatience with life. It's been the cause of all my woes since my early teens.

I've never eaten properly since I started cooking for myself when I was about 19. Impatience is why. No time to just take it easy and cook a meal, to care about eating, to do such an essential, normal, healthy thing. No sir. Only making art was important. My body didn't matter; I just needed to keep it alive and no more.

Other people? Who needed them. I just needed to create great art then die. Sod life.

No plans. Except creating art that would outshine my life; nobody would see my life for it. And that was good. My life would be the dross of my art.

Never mind family and marriage - what were they? Never mind money, or clothes without holes in them. Never mind love. Other than the spiritual kind. I loved the stars and the trees. I loved the soul and the spirit, wisdom, truth and beauty. I loved the ideal feminine, but had no thought for females, for forming earthly ties. And friends were a concept, nothing but. I thought about it all quite cooly.

Art made my blood go. It didn't move otherwise.

People were quartz crystals.

I watched and thought.

I skimmed life's surface. I wouldn't incarnate fully for fear of losing the Golden Age.

Wouldn't take food, or sympathy, or friendship, or love, or any kind of interest from others in my being. Wouldn't be drawn into that cloying muddy ground that was life. Wouldn't be sullied, de-winged, shot down. Humbled.

Wouldn't be human.

Humans moved too slow. Earthworms. Earthworms with emotions. Emotions! Imagine it! How stupid! Why do they let it happen to themselves?! When they could be free like me!

Free like a plant that's pulled itself up.

Where's the nourishment? When you've been born but don't want life or death? You starve but keep yourself busy. You feed on dreams like a hamster at its cage-bottle.

You wonder.