Alone, I only hear the tapping of the shovel outside my window. Where is everyone? I am left behind again. I leave myself behind actually, leave myself to my own tears that stain my sheets as they drip ever slowly down my face, onto my chin, and into the air till each one hits the surface re-joining all those previous to it. 

What am I to do when the pains of hunger subside and I am able to run on empty without feeling ill? How is one to stop this behavior when reinforced by the beauty of bones in a photograph? How does one still go out with her friends when she fears the calories of an alcoholic beverage, and if she ends up going she despises herself the next day, all the hard work and restriction  gone in a moments time, consuming in 2 hrs as much as she would originally in 1 week. She will have to starve extra hard- whatever that means and exercise till she can't stand. Of course her body will result in a hideous burden that ruins her day or week, she is failing at the game she was once so brilliant at, nothing was able to tempt her for calories were the enemy and cause of death. Why is her body always looking for a battle? I paint this all but I begin asking myself how I should paint it, rather than just doing it. Criticizing that which I have previously  begun to be a beastly disaster. 

Thoughts, to many...surly this is my problem. Is there a such thing as being too aware of that which surrounds you? Being to questionable of it all, for you wonder all the possibilities that a given situation, thing, act may result in? And beneath each possibility is another and yet another, and then you question the people involved and their true motives. Then you think of exactly what to say and how because you don't want to sound stupid, then you say it and ask yourself if it was in fact stupid. And of course it will be so then you will repeat the phrase over and over in your head and beat yourself up for that which you voiced, and you will think of what you could or should have said instead. You question why you lack structure in verbal communication. You question your beliefs and realize you cant even establish a belief system because there are just to many others in the world, to many influences, to many unanswered questions. Words can't even explain this unquestionable feeling. 

Why think so much? It has not helped me in any sense, if I could only put all this unconscious effort into my studies, maybe I would be intelligent. 

I paint stupidity. And questions. Pain and tears. I attack my canvas head on, full force. 

I think of how to make the number go down.