Headache

I have.

Detox does this. Or it might be staring at a computer screen with wonky glasses.

I'm going to London tomorrow for art. I'm dreading it. I don't know any of my art group, don't really want to know anybody to be honest.
Big cities make me want to run. To jump in, lose myself, vanish in the noise and dirt and crowds. In the city, you can be free and alone and invisible. But I can't run. Not tomorrow. I have to stay, look at art, when I'm not in a visual phase. I can't see. I can only look and scribble dumb meaningless notes and scrawl far too cautious sketches which don't resemble anything and crawl out of the paper to scream failure and inadequacy at me.
Phases. So irritating. All of my life governed by some bizarre external/uncontrolled subconscious force, deciding whether I can read or write or draw or speak or move or care. For a month I can paint, then the brush turns to worms and the paint splatters and smudges in all the wrong ways. So I start to write, to speak, to natter and ramble on and on and on. Then it all starts to dry up. So I lie in my bed and cry with dry eyes until I feel lines criss crossing my mind and its time to paint crimson. Every stage interchangeable and I never know what I need next. No wonder I have no future plans, when every few months, weeks, days, I'm a different person, shiny and new or dragged out from the depths of the past old.
There have been too many different stages, new acts, but no new scenes. This characterisation is disintegrating, do you believe in reincarnation?