Hands are tied.

Don't be fooled by the trench coat or the coffee stained cup to the right of my wrist. Don't be swayed by the hair that is growing at the pace of molasses (these bangs are a constant test to my scope of self control) or the manicure (a once in a million affair; the act of receiving such). I am having trouble with adulthood these days, weeks, months. I can't seem to finish a damn thing or take artistic leaps whatsoever these days. My kitchen table has become a storage surface home to hundreds of scraps of projects. Every day I look at those sad, sagging birth announcements splayed out like paper guts and my heart sinks. I am reminded yet again of all of the things I cannot bring myself to do, and of all of the things I cannot bring myself to finish. Scraps of myself are everywhere. To Do lists are long forgotten, my files are in heaps. There is no organization these days because I have been living in a very specific state of mind for weeks now. A state of mind where organization is superfluous. No need she said and waved off the growing mountain with a hand. I'll do it later, later, later, later.

There might not be a later.

I burnt myself out printing my portfolio and now I am upset by my own lack of interest in printing simply for the pleasure of printing. My indifference in the studio (these days at least; I am hoping this passes lightening quick) is hard to swallow, hard to just let it be, let it sit there on my chest, this rut, just for the sake of living. All of these troubles are multiplied in layers in my head and are taking over and distracting the hell out of me altogether. Thus the cycle of frustration. I am so frustrated. I cannot get anything done because I don't want to get anything done and yet I am dying to be in it again, making, working, practicing for art school.

My hands are tied. I weep as I write.

How long will I be twelve? I suppose the scariest thing of all is that I am very nearly double that age in reality. Four days shy of 24. I don't know what to do. Time is slipping again. What will it take, Megan? What will it take? How many times can you ask yourself that in a single day? Hundreds. I don't want the bush to be an escape from things that haunt. I suppose the knowledge I am seeking lies within myself. As for working through this, that is also up to me. Frustration is a haunting thing.

The slippery slope of change is very close and I continue to fear the things I do not understand.

And yet the pockets of ease and the windows of hopefulness and days of joy worth more than any measurement in the world, come easily. I am happy in so many avenues that this inability to cross some unforeseen threshold within myself is driving me wild. Life is not perfect. And while standing up to one's ears in an internal slump is the pits, I have so much to say thank you for. To whomever and however, thank you for the health and happiness.

Rags, life is quick and you continue to teach by example. Your quiet strength and will are within you for moments just like this, when the man (and woman) who gave it to you in the first place, needs it most. Just keep being, you are doing exactly what is needed. I love you and I am carrying you and yours with me.

My hands are up in arms. A really, really good pair of arms. Despite all of my wailing, there is a good man who listens and looks up from his respective screen to laugh with me when we see a segue cruising down Broadway. Weird. Or maybe he is laughing at my bedraggled eyes. Such joy and such sadness, back to back in mere moments. How can this be?

Such is life.

With hands at rest for now,

Megan