i loved you when you had curly hair

There comes a time when one can't create anymore, or rather one doesn't want to, because looking at another fractured lens and incomplete photograph, a piece of painting that was disregarded or another half-finished sculpture makes one ill; perhaps not in a physical way, but in a distant, psycho-sexual, removed intellectual way.

Maybe for the last few years, there existed this self-destructive tendency inside me to throw everything against the wall and destroy it. What is the point of creating something, when really it will be overshadowed by marketing, conjecture and meaningless artist statements? I felt like Dominique Francon, when she pushed the most beautiful object she had ever seen, down a steep staircase; destroying it forever, then laughing afterwards.

I had ceased to care...or according to history, I was going through an awakening. A block in one's psyche in which one couldn't access one's feelings, and the numbness overwhelmed all other senses. I felt like some awkward character in T.S. Eliot poem:

I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it
Since what is kept must be adulterated?
I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch:
How should I use them for your closer contact? Neither she nor I will do foolish things

It was finished. I accomplished exactly what I wanted to do, even if it meant another half century would pass without it being seen. I didn't want to change anything about it, to make a more commercial version nor to change the narrative. I loved it exactly the way it was, and distribution or not, it was going to remain intact.