I just do not know what happens. So often I wish not to feel this much involved, not to have feelings when I get them. I just feel pain and I do not know why. Envolved in this world I am and it often seems as if it does not want me to be here. It gives me pain when I demand delight. Gives me negative things when I just demand for a single moment of gratitude. It strikes me, banns me, pushes me, when I just need time.
Time so much time is missing, time to get along with me, what I am and do not want to be, do want to be, because it should be enough. I could just fit in perfectly, I have all the qualifications, enough brains, enough intellect, enough talent, enough beauty, but still i feel so messed up inside. Nothing extraordinary about me, just the past and it comes up again, does not let me be. Be as I could.
Martha Chiara 
No words of wisdom from me…other than I am not sure a talented artist with a good brain is supposed to fit in…how could you?
May I simply say what a comfort to uncover somebody that really understands what they’re discussing over the internet. You definitely know how to bring a problem to light and make it important. More people have to check this out and understand this side of your story. I was surprised you are not more popular given that you definitely have the gift.
I concur regarding the content, but popularity is of little importance and in fact more than likely merely a distraction. And most authentic creators don’t experience popularity or wealth for obvious reasons…fortunately and unfortunately.
To A Young Artist
by Robinson Jeffers
It is good for strength not to be merciful
To its own weakness, good for the deep urn to run
over, good to explore
The peaks and the deeps, who can endure it,
Good to be hurt, who can be healed afterward: but
you that have whetted consciousness
Too bitter an edge, too keenly daring,
So that the color of a leaf can make you tremble
and your own thoughts like harriers
Tear the live mind: were your bones mountains,
Your blood rivers to endure it? and all that labor
of discipline labors to death.
Delight is exquisite, pain is more present;
You have sold the armor, you have bought shining
with burning, one should be stronger than
strength
To fight baresark in the stabbing field
In the rage of the stars: I tell you unconsciousness
is the treasure, the tower, the fortress;
Referred to that one may live anything;
The temple and the tower: poor dancer on the flints
and shards in the temple porches, turn home.
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