I'm feeling exhausted, wiped out, at times exhilarated, ravenous, overflowing with ideas, and crippled with staggering burdens. The other night I cried and laughed at the same time until I didn't know which way was up. I worry that someday I'll look down at myself and find that I'm spread so thin I've become transparent. Through all this, I'm consistently creating, as absurd as it sounds. I'm painting and writing and designing my behind off because I don't know any other way to be, even though I'm feeling an overwhelming amount of indifference and lack of appreciation for my work. I feel invisible, dependable and taken for granted. And yet, I have to go on being an artist, because that's all I know how to do. In the end, I think that's what might save me.