Though it's only been like a month and a half and it feels like everyone is moving on already. I guess I can't say I blame them, but it lets me know that I was the closest too him. I'm not sure if that's comforting or something that makes me want to burst into tears. I guess I'm getting used to the crying fits, so either way...

To help me deal with myself here's an exert of Gary's free writing. He often did this when he was trying to break his art block. As far as I know this was his last. I did my best to translate it, but as those who knew Gary his handwriting was atrocious. So I just did my best. Skip it if your depressed. I'm not posting this to make anyone else cry.


So we try this again. I suppose if it worked when I had died the first time it should help at least somewhat now. I'm sure my had will cramp again long before three pages, but what the hell eh? My My writing is so illegible I might as well be making pictogram s as sort of visual cues to spark the memory of the thought I'm trying to let out. Might take longer though and this is going to take long enough as it is. Surprisingly three pages will not take as long as I feared they would. Not that is should matter as the time I'm using for this is pretty much a waste anyway.

I suppose this is the part of my attempts to make these lonely days more useful. If I can bring myself to write of draw again it might give hope of leading to something better. If something better is even possible. I suppose hope is the key. If I can hope then I can at least have that tenatious grasp of life that so many others take for granted. I guess that is a comfort. Honestly I'm uncertain how I feel about that sort of hope a creative outlet offers. Part of me finds is an easy thing to place hope in, while the other better part knows its just more lies and bullshit anyway.

I'm all but absolutely certain that I will never amount to anything more than I currently am: A failure. Just like everyone else. At the very least this experience should serve to unburden my mind, even if it leads to nothing more. If it does eventually lead to creative output than at the least such expression would serve to entertain and enliven my own mind even if it leads to no other profit to the wise.

I do, or at least I did, enjoy creating things be it story or art. Doing so again- and finding pleasure if not purpose is it- would be a reaward of its own. Hedenism is not lost on me these days, To the contrary, such attitudes have a certian appeal to me now that they didin't have a short while ago. Simly reveling is my own pleasures when tempered with concern for others does offer a certian semblance of purpose that I somehow missed before. Drugs really can alter ones reality or their perception of reality at least. In the end thats is pretty much the same thing.

These are really mere pens. I like them. I worry that this exercise ends too soon, without a glimpse of some of those things that have been on my mind. Stories to spell really, about reality and dreams and all that stuff that comes up over and over again.


I'm not even sure if I should be posting this, but I'll post more tomorrow if I decide I should.