#This became a much bigger vent art and text ramble than intended

[moriamori]

Even now I feel the ghosts of muscles and nerves wishing to induce pain, as my upper torso works on healing missing skin from ripped kinetic sports tape used in recovery.

The words "Do what you love while you still have the bodily means to do it" rattles through my bones, I'm not that old by human standards but the sense of a countdown remains regardless. Comics are a deep love of mine. They're also the medium to tell a story very, very slowly.

With an average life span of 80 years, knock off my current 30, that's 50 years left. A completed series could take about ten years, many have taken longer. The manic could commit maybe five stories. Realistically, most manage half or a quarter of one. Maybe complete one. Maybe two. And my arms hurt, my spine pinches. My fingers tingle.

With my current funds, I choose between one physio session for the month, or hope to save up enough for an ergonomics assessment of my awful workdesk-setup in a slanted apartment, with a chair too big and items eternally too wide, too heavy for me. "This time," I say, "This time, this will help me get closer to drawing again".

I had wanted to be a freelance illustrator, when I realized my day job would never financially reflect the amount of work I do or don't put in. I wouldn't be able to increase my funds if I took on more work. My job will only realize they can expect more work out of me for the same pay. Getting hired elsewhere, while a possibility, would likely involve obtaining a new job that is twice as stressful and pays a tiny bit more. I don't even want this career.

I used to do commissions. I used to draw like I breathed. The irony of working in an art school is that the continuous exposure to technique and "how to get better", mainly makes you able to see your own mistakes and your own shortcomings over and over again. It's always about improvement. Find the faults, do better. Do better. Do better.

Don't sing this way, sing that way.

I feel like I've lost my voice. I feel like my voice hasn't much to say, actually. I know people loved it, once. People even demand my return.

"I want to see the next pages." "Where's that comic you said you'd do?" "Made any art recently?"

Positive attention doesn't pay bills, doesn't give me lunch, doesn't offer insurance for my physio therapy bills. It almost did. But I would have to keep performing. Keep producing through the burn. And I want to. I do. That's the awful thing in the end. I also want these pages done.

I want to love to create again. I remember I loved. I loved fearlessly. Made fearlessly. I embraced bad art. Minimalist art. Shitty art.

"I know you can make better than this." "You didn't put effort in this one."

Please put effort in me.

I am sorry the previous conditions I worked in were not enough, and the past support was not enough. I did have patreon. I did have some support. I had people willing to pay me for my time and effort and they even had patience. It was almost enough. Almost.

A flower still wilts if only given a slice of the sun it needs. It can try to grow in those conditions but it isn't going to be good.

"It used to be enough before!"

Maybe I grew. Maybe my appetite and my needs got bigger. Kids' meals don't fill me anymore. What right do I have to ask for more, when I have nothing to show for it? When what I make, may end up being terrible regardless?

"Remember you will love," I tell myself once more. Maybe I'll love regardless, in the end. Pages or no pages.

I do love terrible comics, in the end.