Day 0410

Worked at the easel all day, but colours all wrong. Persevering with Atlas Shrugged, just want it to be finished. Nearly there.

Last night was tortuous. No solutions to how I should live my life. Looked at everything from travelling (running away), to jobs (applied to some more), to business, to art, to buying a shack. Want to quit this bastard project and forget about it, recalibrate my dreams. But I don't know what to want instead! Utterly exhausting, circular, pointless. Want to write, but can't comprehend the magnitude of bringing characters to life, let alone crafting a plot. Of showing not telling. Everything I do is declamatory.