I’ve stopped. Stopped trying. Stopped pretending.
It’s painful and difficult. A million lemmings are perpetually beckoning me to come back. Seducing me with shiny objects. Tempting me with 401Ks, security, that food I always wanted.
But I don’t fit. I never did.
Faking it was more. More painful, more difficult, more awkward, more frustrating, more suffocating, more soul crushing. And ironically, I wasn’t truly fooling anybody...except myself.
But am I the square peg? Or am I the a-hole?
I guess that all depends on the beholder. And perhaps what the ‘A’ stands for.
Ass?
Angst?
Arrogance?
Maybe it’s simply Artist.
I get a lot of grief for being an unapologetically self-proclaimed artist. I’m called precious, spoiled, deluded, audacious...and those are just the voices in my head.
But I also get that fizzing feeling in every cell of my body. That one where I know I’m doing what I was born to do. Where I feel joy and purpose and satisfaction. Where I am never conflicted with what I’m doing in the world.
What’s that called again..?
Oh yeah...
ALIVE
