Notes to Cindy: The Archives

Well, once again, Anya is gone. She stayed for ten days again. We mostly just watched Netflix and YouTube. The wifi is out, so I'm left to my thoughts with no source of entertainment or communication with the outside world. It's like being in the hospital again, except I'm permanently confined to my room without breaks. I have only pen and paper. This would be a good thing if I wasn't stricken with writer's block. There is so much I have to start, edit, or finish, but with no inspiration to speak of, I'm still bount to blank worthless pages. Anya did leave me with six packs of cigarettes, so I can at the very least, cope with cabin fever to some extent. THis is why all the great artists were drunks and drug users: to be able to cope with solitude and frustration, while simultaneously tapping into the various worlds conceived by their imaginations. All of my best work came from silence, solitude, and psychiactric sedation. At the moment, I only have two of those, which is more than I've had in a while, but my mind is much too unsettled. Art comes not from emotion, but rather the reflection of emotion, such as information might be the reflection of logic. No, this is incorrect. Experience fuels both emotion and logic, while both art and decisive action are reflected respectively It is where the reflections change suitors that mistakes and madness are born. For instance, right now, I am logically hungry, but the decisive action where hunger is concerned is the reflection of emotion rather than logic, and so I'm making the mistake of not eating, which will hinder me both mentally and physically, resulting in madness, illness, and even death, should I continue this pattern. Alas, even my silence is not complete. Every now and then, an exclamation or obnoxious laugh from Jasper as he plays on his computer interupts my oblivion. I would kill for some ear plugs right now. I wish I could write. I think I may just edit some things to get back in shape.