I sometimes feel like I am so raw… that I have worked myself to the bone for my passion. I feel as though my skin and my reflection is not enough proof that I am alive. My battles have not been won. My struggles continue to repeat themselves throughout the months and I guess, at the end of it all, I only have my art to show for it. Not even my tears are enough to relieve the tension. There are pills to calm my nerves and take me away for awhile, but I think I’ve been running from my past for so long. I’ve been running form my grief and anger. I’ve been running from the things that made me who I am today. So what does that say about me as an artist? If I cannot be truthful with myself and with reality, then am I truly as real as I believe? Sometimes the reflection is not enough to prove that I am alive. Sometimes not even the pain can prove that I am alive. But maybe if I could turn myself inside out, if I could show my raw fucking hide and the years of wear and tear on my heart, things would be different because not even my art could show the true pain behind the pills and addictions.