I don’t want to write mindlessly because I know I will end up spilling truths. And truths scare me. We all live in our own worlds and mine is particularly beautiful. In my world, lovers meet to no end. The grass is always green. The wind is always blowing. All things are said and understood and reciprocated and nothing is lost on the way. People help people. No one is hungry for food or love. Words come out without hesitation and are always used to heal.

That’s why I live here. Most people recognise me as an artist but I am only doing my job in putting a picture of my internal landscape on paper. I have now been told that some people will also be ready to pay me good money for it. I never for the money. I’ve just always wanted to be able to get it out of me, if I keep it in too long I get sick. So in a sense I am being paid to turn my insides out. But when I think about it that goes for everyone.

I enjoy sex. On my way to the orgasm I enter the world that I just described above. I have always hoped that the partner with whom I share the bed for this communion is able to see the world in my head but usually they are far too deep in their own. So I don’t try. I close my eyes and swim in it until some of the water escapes me. Once we are done, we head our own way. I deem a certain honesty in it because there is a mutual recognition that communication has been exhausted. I am light headed after the act and head back home to deep rest. Sometimes I cry too. Because I am back in the real world.

I guess everyone is trying to escape in their own way. Very few people see the world for what it actually is. Everyone sees it as how they are. I think those who see the world for what it really is are the ones who go mad. I don’t think I would ever want to go mad. The real world is not kind to mad people. They put them in institutions and lock them up with their own selves. Can you imagine the horror of it?  It might seem like there are no voices around but in their heads they are probably screaming. Sometimes my mind screams too but I shush it because I don’t want to be sent to one of these institutions.

With words I am able to let the madness loose. Open my Pandora’s box. I enjoy the blanket of fiction because I can get away with being anything. I can put blame on those I would never cast a finger upon in real life. I would say I am more forgiving in real life. But the paper helps me unveil my many selves, most of which aren’t very friendly.