I'm starting to wonder where the past three years have gone. I'm starting to wonder where I'm going to be three years from now. I'm questioning my artistic ability; probably because I'm well past burnt out, but I'm still moving forward at break neck speed any way. Fill in the boxes, keep busy, keep from thinking about things that actually merit much thinking. Not that this actually works, and really is just a pointless, shallow worrying used as a defense mechanism to shield the deep issues rampant in my existence.
Why do I complain about too much snow, for instance? Because it's a hell of a lot less taxing on the mind to bitch about snow than what's really troubling in my life.
You see? What's worse, dysfunctional family or snow? Cancer or snow? Manipulation, or snow? Sure, snow didn't really do anything wrong, but as a frozen, inorganic substance with no consciousness, it sure doesn't care much when I yell at it.

Ironic, that I'm reflecting on comments made about snow when it's nearly June. Poetic, really, as much time as I've lost track of.