Damned if I do...

I know what this is. I know where it leads. I can sense the disaster in the pattern that I trace. The strokes are simple but form a daunting image nonetheless, but I think I will paint until it's done this time.

One stroke becomes two as the brush in my hand meet with the paper. I can see what's about to be but I will neither mind nor stop my actions. Like having a life of its own and a destiny to follow, the ink lick the paper with its black tounge, taking action and guiding me along. The image gets more vivid minute by minute until suddenly... it's done.
I drop the brush and fall back, jaded.

My hands are covered in black, like my heart, soul and mind.
The aftermath of my actions are threatingly close to killing me.
I know what this is. I know where it leads. I can sense the disaster in the pattern that I trace.

I just don't know how to stop.
I just don't know if I can.
I don't even know if I want to.

This is me, for good and for bad, and something is missing if I don't do this.
It will hurt me if I don't, it will hurt me if I do.
Damned if I do, damned if I don't.