A love of money is my enemy.
The very thought of wealth seems to have been confined to possession. I am pronounced poor due to insufficient funds. Never have I been mentally capable of allowing my finances to take priority in my life. I dare not say that am better or more loving than then next man because of this, I’m just predisposed to freedom.
My time has been spent searching for a way to bridge the gap between stability and spontaneity. Art is the direction I’ve decided to pursue, though a refusal to adhere to the interests of my would be customers has left my craft bearing little fruit. I’m often left with a feeling of hopelessness. Fortunately I’ve come to understand that feelings can not be trusted. I must not let the memories of my heart overwhelm the persistence of my will, lest my mind become as broken as my heart.
There have been times when I’ve forgotten what it means to be alive. Times when I fail to be anything more than a jaded onlooker. I dream of days spent on a beach somewhere painting but I am sleepwalking. Opening my eyes to a bleak reality with no water to look out upon. My future may yet be brighter than the days I’ve seen but today's food and shelter serve as my comfort.
The thought of tomorrow does little to ease my anxieties. My worries roll in like waves drowning the moments of peace that come after I am fed. Sometimes I manage to subdue these anxieties and other times they subdue me, stealing the breath from my lungs. It can seem as though both life and death elude me. Nether wanting anything to do with me. My mind has felt claustrophobic simply by being confined within this body. Can I be expected to escape myself? If so I can’t imagine how.
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