It's been many months since I last wrote here ... to escape as it were ... I have had no occassion to escape, rather I've spent all this time embroiled in the turbidity of life. I am not unhappy, rather I do find pockets of happiness, in the ways that I have learned to know how to seek and eke them out of the hours, like wringing water out of a sponge that I slip under leaves and rocks to soak the morning dew. Very seldom these days I have the luxury of time for art — for writing, for drawing, or for that trickle of heartsong I call my poetry. Daily for months on end now I have been battling ever declining finances; while work had been plenty, payers had been scarce, employers had been swindling funds (and the jobs I left), debtors had defaulted. Investments had turned sour. I can only take solace that my work is the best as it as has ever been, largely because I am maturing, the many years of practise and study finally bearing fruit, but partly also fueled by desperation ... the hope that it would buy me a better day tomorrow. Yet slowly I feel my spirit is waning. I fear that I am taking less and less pleasure in my work now, always to dream of a more pastoral, if not more idyllic life. Or should I say for a more Thoreau-ic life. To live deliberately, to stand and live, for the day I sit and write. I need this dream. I need this, for when in moments — like today — I have no love for my work, I feel such hollowness that I don't think I can face another day of living. And that is unbearable, and utterly sad if it is true that I have nothing else to live for.