It is my fear that keeps me down.
In a letter to Kris, I wrote "The fear, the fear, the fear
-doesn't everyone have it?" but I'm not sure he does. 

At night, mostly, I feel antsy. That is, when I am not
six-beers-in-drunk with my two unlikely best friends.
Their largest character flaw, collectively, is simply that
they want to spend time with me.

And the anxious way that I grind my teeth- I push
my tongue hard to the top row. The ridges of my molars
painfully bite into the muscle. It's the only thing that stops
my teeth from being grated into a fine powder. Bone dust.
But, it only serves to make me more nervous. I have to
keep attentive as to not slip back to the sliding of enamel
on enamel and that, in itself, is stressful.

I still want to make art; a drive I thought I wouldn't have
now, but it runs as hot and deep as ever. Or, rather, I should
say, as never. I've never felt the urge to create as hard as now
where the means to create has been stunted and I can't produce
the image of what I want to create, in my mind or otherwise.

But don't I always want what I can't have.

I suppose there is the binding of useless books. Busy work
to keep my hands from the dread of stillness.
And, writing but I write and write knowing no one will see it.
I know I won't post it, I don't even want to post this.
I don't want others to know that I've got the fear.

I can't cook in this foreign kitchen. It's too hot to turn on the oven
and there's always someone there when I want to be alone.
I want to feel comforted by the act of making and sharing food
but I can do neither. These are not my pots and pans, not my
cutlery or over abundance of kitchen appliances.

Too many questions when I just want silence.
Too many people when I just want to be alone.
Too much time awake when I just want to be knocked the fuck out.