is it this moment when, instead of feeling bright and satisfied, i think everything i've laid my hand to is stupid and useless?
is it this moment when, rather than get needed sleep, i stay up and dream of distant goals - days when satisfaction is plenty?
is it this moment when, up at 3am, listening to the rain, eating oranges, typing toward something or someone, i look at my half-finished paintings and half-crocheted flowers and half-read books and know that i can't help but finish all the half-way-theres... even though i've already decided that my hands do stupid things and that my dreams just keep me awake and get in the way?
is it this moment?
or is it tomorrow
when i head back to the studio to fight my finicky canvas... when i decide to read one more chapter, write one more silly line, stitch one more petal in my black garden?
is it both?
is this the ego we've read about?
fragile and sorta annoying...
punishing.
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