I have stopped counting the many triggers to igniting the sneezing, wheezing and running of this faucet.
Allergies you say?
Maybe. But why then does it act up when I am simply doing a mental number on myself. You know, coddling those thoughts that say I am getting fat, stupid, living a meaningless existence, not good enough and so on and so forth.
Painting was once a life saver, now it is more of a chore. Since I have been painting everyday it feels more like the act of washing dishes than anything special. And I am also now allergic to paints. As soon as i open a can of it, I blow my nose so much that like Van Gogh with his irritating ear, I would like to cut it off.
Art is no longer a holy grail but a way to pass time until the curtain falls.
I am jealous of people who can make food and eating into a sacred act. Somehow the whole process of cooking, chewing and then defecating never caught my fire.
I think if my allergies clear up and I stop sounding like a wounded elephant, I might finally fathom the meaning of life before I go.