3:11 am. March 21th. 3rd month of this year. I'll just never forget the feeling that I got that morning months ago, after I woke up in the middle of that night to a snow covered city that was calmly sleeping outside of my window. When I fell asleep a few hours earlier that evening, there was seemingly nothing there. I just remember feeling a feel that I hadn't felt for some time, a feeling though that I knew on that very night would be gone by the time morning arrived and I'd be driving off to work once again just wishing that a truck would smash full-speed right through the driver side door of my car simply so nature could finally balance and equal everything out for the best. Hence, perhaps that really was why I got that very feeling on that very morning a few months ago, a feeling that told me that something just has to change while it let me know just how bad it was going to get if I were to go on only listening to the voices inside of my own head.

Or should I always listen whenever the voices constantly tell me to doubt and reject my "feel" for my existence, a "feel" made up of an infinite and eternal multitude of feelings, sensations, and internal reactions, which is maybe all that I really am? Though if it seems like life, or any existence for that matter, is nothing more than a "feel" and that's it, just why would I then ever attempt to combat it, or look to prematurely kill it off by turning on the ignition in a closed-off garage to the point where my scrambled brain has nothing left to emit?

So as I sit at the airport 4 months later on this July night, am I then at this moment just feeling the product and sum of what you sense after you've been constantly told and telling yourself that there's gotta be an issue just so you can become convinced that there truly is such a thing as a perfect moment when an issue or strain could and would never come into existence again?

And so does that in a nutshell explain why I woke up in the middle of the night on that March morning months ago, or does that not explain a thing as my life continues to feel like a tedious encumbrance that's going down in a tale-spin just looking to place me in a coffin next to the gravestone of a sister who I possibly killed? However, if awakening in the middle of the night to a beautiful snowy, yet dark morning is a sign that you're in a place following a plan that just may have absolutely nothing to do with you whatsoever while another place calls your name, were such mornings then in fact invented in order to inform you that the tasks, plans, toils, thoughts, and duties that are unable to conjure up the spark that terminates your urge to experience your own categorical death just have to go?

And so if painting, sketching, and playing soccer truly does produce that proverbial spark, and feeds my feel for my existence to the point where it sends me into my element of elements, would that then explain why I'm now on the verge of a take-off that I've been searching for, yet still can't totally pinpoint why? Yet if all of these questions don't explain why I'm sitting at the airport at this very second, what words or answers in the world could explain anything as my own crawling skin and drowning feel for life continues to scratch and drag me down as I fiercely attempt to envision a life within a different city, inside of an old country, on a new continent within a context of newly conjured up feelings and trials that I'm hoping are going to let me sense what a worthwhile composition is capable of sketching, painting, kicking, sensing, and feeling?

So as I sit at this airport and stare at a clock on a wall that's letting me know that it's approaching midnight on just another hell humid July day in southern Ontario, I can sense that I'm definitely not going to miss this place and the thoughts and feelings that go along with it. And though they say that it's Lake Ontario that gives this area such a damn damp and muggy feel that's beyond unbearable at times, I couldn't care less at this point since I'm finally gonna be outta here. But man, on some summer days I truly could just sweat the hours away in or out of the office like there's no tomorrow, so hopefully tomorrow does bring something fresh. Yet if sweat alone is the only means that lets me know that I'm still alive and pumping away, maybe it just isn't quite my time to feel fresh and renewed.

But honestly, how could've anyone blamed and belittled me for not being productive under such humid conditions whenever I was in that office at that bloody desk? So how far away from the front of that monitor will I need to get before it'll feel like that desk never even existed?

Though how much of my existence have I already squandered away wondering why I am, or had been sitting at that desk in the 1st place? Yet if I were always going into that office in order to divert away from the fact that my parents went through an ugly divorce when I was 16, am I then still refusing to accept the fact that I went through that break-up all alone, or am I merely attempting to hide and bury the fact that I alone was accountable for my older sister's death, which the people back home are probably still calling a murder? Hence, maybe the divorce didn't affect me one bit? – A divorce that left my drunk of a dad all alone in Manitoba in a town where the kids and teachers let me have it for being born to a man who made ugly scenes like breaking pool cues over other patrons' heads seem as if they were going out of style.

Luckily enough though, I ultimately ended up leaving that town about a decade ago after my mom, siblings, and I exchanged a Manitoba town for a northern Ontario town that's situated not far from the Quebec border. My older sister however unfortunately never got to make that move as she passed away roughly 6 months prior to the divorce and our exodus east. And even though I'm still not sure whether my sister's death led my mom to finally push for that divorce, or if her daughter's death led her to believe that returning back to the place where she lived and once felt safe is going to help her cope with what happened, but either way, that no longer plays any role.

Coz (because) all that I know is that nothing in the world could've helped me to cope with sitting in front of that damn computer in that bloody office, except for picking a new place in the world to call home. Now I guess that I could've stayed convinced that heading to work every morning with the sole intent of impressing a boss and a group of co-workers by showing just how much I know could've saved and guarded me from my feel for my existence, and would've changed things for the best; however, as far as I'm concerned, I could also not believe one word of it.

Though as I sit here at this airport today, why do I somehow get the sense that my "guarded" actions not only didn't shield me, but that they actually left me even more exposed, especially whenever I wondered if the impression that I were giving to others was the one that I wanted to give off, yet the one that I should've never subjected myself to? Coz what's the value of making an impression if you conceivably are the only one who's supposed to engrain an imprint within yourself? Thus, if that sums me up in a nutshell, what am I then trying to portray every time that I look to illustrate anything in the 1st place? And just what does a broken mind know about painting a "portrait" anyway if it's already hard enough to...