Attempt at communcating

I just used this turpentine varnish stuff for the first time and I think I may be gradually asphyxiating myself; in addition I'm smoking, which opens my possibilities for cancer and spontaneous combustion. Now may be the moment to rush and buy up all my work, the investment value would spike.
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I have been wanting to speak with you. I'll try to work out the matter, right here, without preparation. That is just it...preparation, forethought and the desire to have oneself in some kind of order before presentation. The more I've been studying this in myself the more I think our attempts at perfection may be our biggest mistake of all. We want to see ourselves, our world, our lives as meaningful, and in this earnest desire, we construct ideas for ourselves to live up to, and then later disown these same ideas, having it appear that it was something outside ourselves which set the course.
To present a clear depiction of what it means to live would be a limited and exclusive contrivance, because I don't know what it means to live, nor how to live. But I do believe there is something outside & inside ourselves which 'sets the course' (or IS the course) and that our desire for control is what inspires our projections of how life 'ought' to be.
...This is not what I wanted to say. (and I hang my head in frustration.)

A Haphazard Introduction

I decided to use this area to work out my thoughts about painting, art & life in general. Why am I so tentative right now? When I speak & paint I am almost completely without discretion (often to my disadvantage) but I'm writing this and I'm already imagining you reading it and I have no idea who you are or how you are...well, how are you? Who are you?
Wait- perhaps we are getting ahead of ourselves. I made an alarming discovery a few nights ago. Coffee in my system does not assist me in painting, and this is a terrible thing for me to learn because I am very happy with my addiction. I pour coffee into me until my brain feels light (and um, stimulated) and then my eyes are roaming all around and I know I am ready to begin something. But it's hard to keep a steady hand. It's hard to keep a steady train of thought regardless of what's in my system or where I am going with this.
My paintings have begun to pile up like bodies. This is really what they look like to me. I feel like they have an existence independent of me, and keeping them here in my hole of a dwelling is almost like keeping them tied up in my basement. I don't think they belong to me, when I bring them out to sell it seems like I'm just waiting for whoever they belong to to show up and claim them.
The paintings are not what are important to me. The process of painting is my involvement. Internal monologues streams through me, in words and in shapes and diagrams. I carry on somewhat fictional conversations with flat two dimensional peoples of whose existence I am in much of question of as my own. I think these people were alive, are alive, and that death is a part of their life that they know much more of than I do.