I do.

It’s a lie to say I love everything I created.

8 out 10, I don’t like my own work.

Especially when they reflect my true state of mind. When I fuck up & lock up my freedom, they lurk in my creation. In sketches. In colors. In brush strokes. In composition.

I hate looking at myself. I can’t turn myself elsewhere. It’s a battle between the mind and the soul.

Those who can’t draw, suggest you to paint to find peace. I laughed.

You only paint to dig up the bottom of your soul. Whatever you find down there, could either be peace, horror, or solitude.

I had found myself many times. I found myself in a mess. I found myself stuck. I did find myself free occasionally though. That was when I was truly happy.

Picasso was right. It takes a long time to feel young again.

In order to set free, maybe I need to let go of complete sanity. Half mad half sane get me to nowhere.

I neither succeed in the world of the logic, nor thrive in the world of art.

Maybe it’s time to go mad, deeply.