I saw this painting on a friend’s blog a couple of days ago and I’ve been in a spasm of angst ever since.
Circe Poisons the Sea, by John William Waterhouse
In Roman myth, Circe poured poison into the sea to kill a rival sea nymph.
This painting has made me stop and ask myself what poison I am pouring. I fear I spew a constant stream of poison into the sea of my fragile psyche.
I can’t write. I’m a hack. I’m deluding myself to think anyone would want to read my blithering. My writing is boring, corny, convuluted, illogical.
What is the antidote? What can I pour in to counteract the harm I’ve done? What can I do to stop myself from pouring more, more, more?
In The Sower, Alek dreams of a poisoned stream. When blood pours in, the stream is purified.
I don’t want to bleed.