I envy the singer of heavy metal music. They can fully vent their spleen and perversions in a socially acceptable fashion. At least I accept it. If I can know that somehow, somewhere someone is saying the things they really feel like saying then I can pretend that things like honour, honesty and truth can still exist someday.

It is with much trepidation that I admit that I am afraid of beauty. The implications of it crush me like an insect. By that I mean the fear and the beauty. They squeeze me into a very small space when I would walk tall upon this earth. The voice becomes a whisper. I need never be seen.

As soon as I speak I regret it. Is it possible to relax now? I do not paint for fear of being discredited. What I once loved I had to stop. The terror of painting became acute as the world ripped itself apart in places I had only read of or seen on the TV news. I draw again, but in a guilty, erotic fashion for my own damnable enjoyment. I remember when an Art Therapist told me that I had to find some other way of connecting with people than through my art: I cried. I cried because I could think of nothing else to do.

It ends up like this: I always want to look people in the eye--but only if I could not be seen--my eyes will always betray me. I cannot express emotion because all my defects of character become patent and obvious. A friend used to tell me that I didn't have to feel that way, that I could let myself come into my own. How could I tell him desires may destroy? He is a gentle fellow and always struck me as able to cope with those delicate and difficult things in life. I keep refuting myself, only because I need to avoid psychosis.