A lot of gibberish in this book. Chaos trying to make sense on paper, but really it just turns out to be lines of misspelled words in every direction not answering any real questions or having any real point. Sort of reminds me of life. A journal that had all intentions to be organized and reverered slowly turning into a bunch of shit on paper when you pen stops working.
Finding a pen is half the battle. A working pen. It’s like the paper is our subconscious filled with hope of why our conscious mind can wrangle up to put into words. Then just to be disappointed when the pen runs out. No time to come back to it. The thought is lost. In the abyss of conscious thought without a concrete home.
Making notes here and there. Oh well. At least you can enjoy the art. 😀
October 31, 2017 at 8:57 AM
I always enjoy ” your art”
And always enjoy “everything you write especially on those days where you think it’s just gibberish because that is “real life with PTSD”
You are the best!