I haven’t written much on here recently, in fact I have deleted many posts. Not seeing the point in leaving my strange and unusual mind open for the entire world to see. I felt naked, and so I started to cut away the most damming examples of my insanity. Like a machete slashing through a forest of internal damnation, I scythed my way through over 200 posts. No one read them so why keep them, they had served their purpose for me many times over and the need to keep them out there seemed fruitless.
I had a mind to quit writing this blog as it seemed to be dragging me down further and further into a mire of despair. Yet like a drug it lures me back and consumes my passion and desire to write. The issue now at hand is whether writing is good or bad, or should I say my writing is good or bad or indifferent. It seems my writing is like my mind it can be stimulating and yet sometimes it can be so dull and clouded, lacking any bite, full of stupid mistakes and errors.
Then sometimes I find something I want to post and this time my find is an old painting I did for a friend. I think I may have mentioned it in a post but likely I have deleted said post now. I did delete every one of my original posts as no one ever bothered to read them, still I found this painting and decided to add it. It is called the galaxies and it is my abstract view of the swirly nature of some galaxies.
It took ages to paint, my friend asked me to paint it when he originally moved into his new flat, and it was nearly 18 months I suspect until I finished it. It looks better in the flesh than in the photo.