That Feel

“They thought I was a Surrealist, but I wasn’t. I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.”  

⏤Frida Kahlo

“All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel.

All of them?

Sure, he says. Think about it. There’s escaping from the wolves, fighting the wolves, capturing the wolves, taming the wolves. Being thrown to the wolves, or throwing others to the wolves so the wolves will eat them instead of you. Running with the wolf pack. Turning into a wolf. Best of all, turning into the head wolf. No other decent stories exist.” 
― Margaret Atwood

“What work do I have to do then?” said Will, but went on at once, “No, on second thought, don’t tell me. I shall decide what I do. If you say my work is fighting, or healing, or exploring, or whatever you might say, I’ll always be thinking about it. And if I do end up doing that, I’ll be resentful because it’ll feel as if I didn’t have a choice, and if I don’t do it, I’ll feel guilty because I should. Whatever I do, I will choose it, no one else.” 
— Philip Pullman

I have that feel, like I’m about to spill out of my skin. It’s about time. I’ve been the same too long. I want to change ⏤ what, I don’t know. 

I’m going to Mexico in September, and hope to figure out some of this there. 

For better or worse, I’ll be writing all my life. I’ve been wanting to get away from the social scene, hole up in some cabin somewhere and write. I have dreams of a residency in New Mexico, just me, the desert, and all those sun-white bones.

It’s a wonderful life, if you can find it. –Nick Cave