This is going to sound hella pretentious, but I’ve been pondering art and my relationship to the artistic process.
I was always deathly afraid that if I left you, I wouldn’t be capable of creating anymore, that every artistic bone in my body would wither away into nothingness and that I’d be just another burnt out square. You were everything to me: muse, model, collaborator, co-conspirator. Hell, you were the process itself, mate.
I’ve always wanted to be an artist, Dionysus. I’ve never wanted to be anything else. I didn’t want to be a firefighter or an astronaut or a police officer (imagine that). I always wanted to be a writer or a painter or a composer or a poet or, preferably, all of the above. The way I figured it, I was already usually off in my own little world, so I may as well make a living of it.