There are bad days. And then there are worse days. Some days, maybe luckily, are nonchalant. This is such an indifferent day, so I decided to write a little.
On bad days there’s no desire for writing. I’m tired of writing about anxiety and depression that hold their grip. It’s boring to read about those feelings over and over again. I’ve written about that pair too often.
Life goes on, still. Not much words. Instead paintings. Done by hand. It feels good to take a crayon and draw a line. It feels almost satisfying to drop a paint-brush into water or oil color and look at the canvas turn into color.
It’s almost bedtime. The best time of the day. Despite the nightmares.