I have to say this. That managing to live with chronic OCD and ALL of its crazy-ass ins-and-outs and ins-and-outs AND ins-and-outs… is rather remarkable and on any level of survival in so far as the brain and mind count. To compare the pull, etc. etc. ETC. of OCD on the sufferer to a piece of Art would be to quite possibly end-up creating THE most… ’beautifully’ agonised AND antagonised picture of… a… contrary brain saturated in fabricated-by-its-very-own-imagination tragedy. Moment-to-moment and being nonstop goaded. Give that particular piece of Art all of the best paints, best colours… best… everything else, really, in the whole wide world necessary. The best painter in the whole wide world, even… EVER! Even THE best… mentally focused and apt as hell artist up for the task and the conclusion would undoubtedly end-up UTTERLY and TOTALLY blowing everyone’s mind. To. Smithereens. Times. A. Thousand. No. Two. Ways. It’s a battle that defies logic, that defies all that the mind should be able to contend with. It would surely and truly be a picture of… irreparable mental doom. A picture that pulsates to the core. At the core. FROM the core. A picture of a whole other universe, let’s say, attempting to map itself out and intricately happen all of the way deep, deep down inside of the sufferer’s, well, everything, really. By all accounts a broken brain and taken to almighty task and even, perhaps, at best basking in a chokehold of… livid-seething turmoil that automatically-by-now BEGS to be enticed by the very same brain JUST desperate unlike anything else, really, for ANY sort of a mental calm. A search for a letter-of-logic that just does not appear to exist. That is the truth ❤️