||October 14th, 2016 Friday|| In my mind, there are landscapes I seek to recreate. I don't really do art anymore, though I used to enjoy it. I still cannot stop myself from wanting to set free and show these pictures in my mind. So, they come out in my stories. My mind is always full. It never empties. It's like and endless storm, flooding over every inch of space. I have to poke holes in the floor so I don't drown. For every drop I can set free, three more take its place. It never ends. I wonder, when I'm old, will the storm end and I can finally have a calm, empty mind? I hope so. What lies there in my mind is everything I seek to bury, everything I wish for, and everything in between. I put little control on the stories I write to see what surfaces that's been hidden underneath that flood. In doing this, I attempt to know myself. I let it flow, whatever it is. Sometimes, the darkness that comes forward disturbs me or stirs in me things I'd forgotten. Only once has it disturbed me so much I discarded what I created. I want to explore the darkest parts of myself, but there is a boundary, a point at which staring too deeply into it brings me close to losing my mind. That story pushed me just slightly over that edge before I could complete it. I cannot write that story, at least not at this point. What it uncovers in me is too much. With that, I do want to write happy endings. I always want happy endings. Getting to that point is a different process. In looking into the depths, I have to acknowledge the massive weight of what I've buried in order to survive to this point. Facing that is a long process. I don't know when I'll be able to write simple, happy stories. For now, they all carry a certain degree of pain. I'm digging down into the center of the earth. It's a long process, but eventually, I'll have to reach the core. Then I can come back up again. The landscape I seek to paint the most desperately is the one I named that other place after. It was a place from a dream, conjured up from my love of a particular seasonal experience. An empty field with a storm just over head, the wind blowing through. A moving painting of a fake sky in sterile prison. A rusted town being taken by the earth. An old cottage, long abandoned. These pieces make a story. I will finish it one day. Many of the stories I write have bits and pieces from dreams. This story will be that dream, completely. I saw that landscape over a decade ago, and it will not leave me. So, I must bring it into existence somehow. Right now, more than ever before, the stories I have been wanting to tell for years are all coming forward. How much can I clear away by letting them out? I want to see where that will take me. What will I learn in the end?