In high school, I used to paint portraits and the human figure 16 hours a day. I used to skip class to go to the art room and paint. No one gave a shit, because I got all A's.

I'd come home and paint more. Painting basically stopped when I came to NY fifteen years ago. No space in my tiny apartments.

This weekend, I painted portraits about 8 hours each day. Everything was fine, and then on one deep breath, I felt like I inhaled something more than air--it felt like my soul.

"Where have YOU been?" I asked it, a tear in my eye.

"Asleep, I think."

"Fifteen years? Screw you!" I thought at it.

It settled in to my body complacently.

And people wonder why I have problems with depression.