You enter a paradox of creativity, of knowing that the thing is nowhere near ‘finished’, but not wanting to change anything about the thing because you’re so in love with the iteration
Somewhere along the way, the meaning changed. My name became synonymous with mockery, to the point where hearing it actually hurt.
Here’s something you might not want to hear: nobody owes your their response.
The feeling of drifting, of existing rather than living, as though life is merely happening to you and not with you, is probably one of the most unsettling experiences I’ve ever been through.
My battle with sleep is a tale as old as time. If I want to fall asleep, I’m chronically awake. If I want to wake up, I’m an immovable, eternal entity.
What makes a good artist? I think this is a much more helpful question than its more popular counterpart, ‘what makes good art?’