I'll Type On My Deathbed

Yesterday it worked, today it won't. One hour of drawing and I haven't forgotten what time it is, I haven't come up with anything whatsoever useful. I tried to draw Satine in Moulin Rouge and came up with some square-looking shemale with fake lips and fake hair. It's one hour of wasted work for nothing, and I can't use this piece of shit for anything.
Changing the topic.
Today the therapist called and asked me why I have kept cancelling my hours lately. I told her the truth, that I've just haven't had the energy to come on in and have those one hour sessions. She sounded concerned and my bad conscious gave me a sting. I don't even really know the lady, but she's always very kind and something about her warm ways just always pulls my sadness trigger. I can sit in her little office and not be able to stop crying and not even know why. Sometimes even the way she'll pat my back and send me on my way can make it worse. Why? It's not like I haven't met nice people before. Yeah, I don't know.
I should be relieved that the Queen is back again, but I can't make myself feel it. It's odd. Whatever I learned from her it is to never trust what people say, even if they swear it on their lives that it's true, because in the end all sworn truth is a lie. And although sometimes my heart will ache for her, my heart will break with hers, there is a bitter flavor to the whole endeavour that I can't explain. It's... complicated. I want to blame myself for feeling the bitterness, for being selfish in this whole situation but it's impossible to rid myself of the feeling. It still tastes like salt. It doesn't taste sweet, not at all.
What am I so afraid of, really? Apart from my obvious fear of dying. Seems every step someone else takes towards growing up I feel like I want to shrink away and disappear into the safe arms of youth. When I hadn't yet learned about life, about death, about it all. While people around me hook up, break up, move in, move out, get engaged, marry, have children, buy fucking apartments in different cities; all I want to do is crawl away, close the door, type. Type. TYPE!
I swear, I'll be fucking typing while I'm on my deathbed and you will be the ones fetching me paper and ink. For once it'll be the roles reversed. And you will be there for me.
You will do all the hard things for me.
POET IN THE JAR