I've always hated myself and I always will because I pretend to be strong but in fact, I have human feelings. I am weak, mortal, hurt.

I would have had another life, live something else than this pityful existence of a damned artist. Glam diamonds and glitzy make-up only hide suffering and pain. That's the awful truth. I'd like to devour, to conquer but I am doomed to death, profundly. I've tried to commit suicide several times, with no success. Life is so hard to experience. Sometimes I do drugs, because I would like to escape but I know I will not. I've undergone psychoanalysis. It does not help because this is not an inner but an outer problem, the way people see me, the way they handle with me. I can be wicked, but then I think why are you so mean ? Does it really matter?

I would like to be happy, I should. People would say you've written books, why are not you proud of yourself? I always feel judged and criticized and that really affects although I pretend it does not. My dream would be to stay with my lover in a remote island and to live free from any social bound. But it would not happen because I am never satisfied. Loneliness makes me sad, company drives me crazy. 

I would be acknowledged for what I done but here in Paris, only the power of money matters and I cannot stand it