Can't remember when was the last time I posted. The random bits of depressive-laden text do not count - for those of you who were unfortunate enough to read them before I hastily deleted whatever I wrote the following morning when I came to my senses.

I had been daydreaming a lot for the past couple of weeks.

The idea of trying out freelancing is not new but it's making a lot more sense than it ever did.

It is hard to let go of the security blanket that is the monthly paycheck but the alternative is rather common to artists like writers, painters, actors, sculptors - most of whom go by without abiding to the norm of having a 'regular' job.

I can't help but wonder if I could have produced better personal work if I haven't had to plan everything around my work schedule, which more often than not ended up with me producing mediocre work.

Think of it - how can a shoot possibly be good without meticulous planning? Half the time all I ever did was to write a brief outline and instruct the subject to bring whatever relevant clothes he or she could find and then try to make the best of it on the shoot itself.

How can anything possibly good come out of this practice?

If there had been time to source for help and organize meetings, I bet everything would have turned out better. And while I'm doing this, I can survive on whatever jobs that come my way. There's a lot of work out there for someone who can take decent exposures and push a mouse around in Photoshop.

I do not need anyone to remind me that I'm not getting younger. By the same token, how can I rely on other's reactions when they themselves have not experienced such a lifestyle?

Why should I feel obliged to explain myself?

I need more faith in myself and I need to learn to stop leaning on other people's approval for my decisions. The fact is that few people can accept anything that differs from the 'regular', but I can't let it stop me from finding what I really want to do.

There is nothing fundamentally right or wrong in this.

I can answer to myself.

I want to run.. as fast as I can, until my lungs feel like they're bursting and my legs burn with lactic acid.

Run to the edge of a cliff and scream.

Scream to the roaring sunset that greeted us back in Labrador.

I want to ask why.

I want to pound my head against the railing until my skull split open.

Why?

Why am I so worthless?

I feel an insane urge to laugh but it came out a strange, truncated croak.

I want to cry but the tears wouldn't come.

For a second I regarded the crashing waves and wondered how easy it will be to end it all.

I pull myself back.

I must carry on, if only to prove to all the fucking naysayers that I can do it.

--

I wrapped our love in all this foil,
Silver-tight like spider legs.
I never wanted it to ever spoil,
But flies will lay their eggs.

- Marilyn Manson, Tourniquet

Hell week.

All I could remember doing was waking up in the morning and shutting down at midnight.

In the midst of getting kicked around like a dog and getting yelled at for every single thing I did, I sat down and thought of how things were. I thought of the wages I used to earn, the amount of freedom I had and most of all, the basic respect I used to enjoy. I pondered the wisdom of getting myself into this situation.

I felt my sense of self being eroded away.

I desperately wanted someone - anyone - to believe in me, but instead the opposite is happening.

The fact is that the 3 years I had slogged away in Nbyn has amounted to nothing. It's not relevant and is even a source of embarrassment.

It makes me want to laugh.

Truly, the only thing I feel like doing is to crawl into a dark cave and disappear.