a cancerous tumor

Art is cancer. Art has completely infected my entire being. It is as if I have a brain tumor that is growing in size every second of everyday. It is slowly making me go insane. I come home to rest from a 36 hour binge in the studio and all I think about is going back. Art is being an alcoholic. I lay down and my mind races. There are one hundred pieces of scrap paper on my bedside table. All of them scribbled with 2 am, 3am and 4 am notes. Notes which make no sense waking up in the morning after an hour's worth of sleep. I have to have a notepad on me at all times or I fear I will come up with a great idea or the solution to some problem and forget it in a second. When I don't have my note pad, the small square bar napkins are what infest my front and back pockets, and those are hard to organize. I have begun writing on my hand while driving, and after my hand is covered with the notes about art, ideas for new work, and titles for new pieces, the chickenscrath half cursive half print starts to journey down my forearm. Art is ink poisoning. Unable to escape, I succumb to it. Art is a plantation owner. Everything I own has the byproduct of art making clung to it like barnacles. A constant reminder. Paint has tainted everywhere I frequent. From the paint on my dress shoes, to the blue stain in the concrete on my front porch 10 miles from the studio. It has ravaged my entire existance, infecting all my belongings with little colorful spots. Art is herpes.