Waning desperation

Painting is my only connection to the world. This is an exaggerated form of phrasing, but carries the genuine sense of desperateness I feel in it. Within nearly everything else I sense parts of myself constantly needing to be hidden or restrained; otherwise they interfere with functioning. Maybe because art has no clearly defined function these parts are allowed to be utterly exposed since there is no function to disrupt- being what they are is their function. Form and function being one thing, that's an interesting thought.
While my desperation is waning it is only because I have seen that understanding is not instintaneous and cannot be forced. The urgency I have had in wanting others to see what I have seen has become introverted where I am wanting to know what I have seen, how I have seen anything at all, how life in one turn is so remarkably provokative and interesting, and in the next, desolate and tiresome.
When I say painting is my only connection it is because much of my identity us tied up in abstractions- in matters so small and specific, like a leaf falling in autumn, they are of no consequence and in matters so large and general, like mortality or time, that I cannot locate myself within them.
I noticed recently in my paintings that the people have been floating less, existing less in undefined segments of color. They've been on the ground, in fields, floating in small boats through the water. I take this to mean that I am associating more with environment. That's a nice thought.
NY is tiring me. I do not know when I'll go or where to, but I'll keep painting.