Nights are long. Endless, unforgiving. Tossing and turning, tangled in the sheets, dreading the dawn. The blank canvas waits like a silent predator, lurking in the corner, ready to pounce the moment I let my guard down. It’s a constant reminder that I’ve done nothing, created nothing—that all the noise in my head is just noise, directionless and weak.
January’s nearly over. Dry January. A self-imposed exile from booze, a noble experiment, the only item on this bleak month’s pathetic menu. But the truth? Being sober strips away the armor. No haze to hide behind, no warm hum of red wine or the dark comfort of a pint of Guinness. The blank canvas is sharper now, more menacing. My failure, my inadequacy—both glaring at me in crystal-clear focus, amplified by the absence of those familiar friends.
Still, what can I do? Tomorrow is coming, whether I’m ready or not. The sun will rise, the canvas will still be there, mocking me from the corner of the studio. I’ve got to get myself together, claw my way out of this pit. But tonight? Tonight, I’ll just lie here in the dark and pray for some kind of answer that probably won’t come.
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