I am so dissatisfied with my paintings tonight. I feel no magic in them and it is a crushing sort of heartbreaking feeling; like gasping for air. They never can get there, where ever the hypothetical there is. I feel like I am constantly reaching and never grasping. I want lightning to strike so that I can rocket out of this hum drum feeling with my painting. I leave them and look at them and find them wanting. It chokes me up with despair that I cannot achieve what I want. I am crazed with it, pushing and pushing until I am bleary eyed. Damn I feel good about them for a moment and then rip them apart with such a harsh critical gaze. They almost need to run from the abusive thread of my thoughts which dig holes in them and criticize their softness. I want to fall through them to the other side of what they should be. Or is it me that is lacking? Feeling less and less like I belong where I am. Jealously watching those who have so much more time to squander while I squeeze out every second of the day. I am tired, disappointed and sad. It doesn't mean I won't keep going, but it is beginning to feel rather pointless. I will always be the painter that I am, the woman that I am, and etc. For a moment I wanted a bit of magic instead reality sits its dull fat ass on my soul.