I wanted, ever since I was probably a few minutes old, I wanted to be a writer, and then I was one, I think I was a writer from the time I was several minutes old, but then I stopped writing, then one day I made the decision to turn my back on writing, and on this day it felt like a relief, I have marked the date forever in my thoughts, it was January 12, 2011, when I said to myself, I will no longer write, I will not write anymore! and I stood from where I was sitting at my kitchen table and walked toward the thing I do now, which is the thing that makes me miserable more than it makes me happy, but I am compelled to do it nevertheless, and I do not think after all it is a relief to paint instead of write, it does not relieve me of any trouble or anguish or struggle or difficulty or loneliness, it was only temporary that I was relieved of all difficulty and struggle in giving up writing in order to paint, and it is true also that sometimes I miss writing very much, I miss it as much as I would miss the absence of anyone truly beloved by me. But I cannot go back, and I do not think I can go back; instead I have to go forward into the greater anguish of painting, forward into a cave that admits no light, and I do not know the contours of this cave, and it is only in my painting it that I will know it and will therefore know where I am. That is hard.