I Better Figure It Out Soon

I better figure it out soon.

I can’t keep going on like this.

It’s clear now that there are certain environments in which I do not fit. There are work environments that I cannot simply push through, tough it out and handle.

I am a creative person. I need to support myself through my creativity or I will die.

I need to use my brain, and my heart, and my soul and my mind. Or I will die.

I cannot just work anymore.

Some people can handle work environments driven by stress, a fast-paced world where the product is all that matters and how individuals treat each other means nothing. I cannot.

I am a creative person. I am a writer and an artist and if I cannot find an environment where my talents are being utilized I will die.

I quit another job because everyone hated working there and it was killing my soul. I wish I was someone who could just put his head down and power through because we need money to survive. But I am not. 

They aren’t wrong, though. In this world we have bills to pay and food to buy. I want so badly to be like them, just work because it’s what you’re supposed to do. I really do.

I’m not that person and maybe I will die because of it. Maybe I will starve, maybe we’ll be homeless, maybe I will fail.

I just want to live, and write, and travel, and try new things, and study mysticism, and go on UFO camping trips, and do past-life regression therapy, and do regular therapy, and get paid to write, and travel, and try new things, and share my thoughts with the world. I want my art to connect me to you, to the world, to God, to the playfulness we once knew. I want the knot of fear and anxiety in my chest to be replaced by a swirling, multicolored ball of love, confidence and trust in the Universe. I want my days to be guided by an unwavering belief, knowledge, and conviction that everything is okay, was okay, and always will be okay.

I want, I want, I want, right? Just do it, they say. Make it happen.

I wish I knew how. I don’t like living down here, in a squalid little apartment, in a city that sucks the life out of me, consumed by worry and anxiety, tearing myself down for not living up to my potential. I hate having to worry about money and if we’re going to make it.

I hate eking by, making just barely enough, never any headway, just enough to break even.

But everyone hates that stuff, right? Everybody hates being broke.

True, but some people know how to accept it. And some people know how to buckle down and make the big bucks.

I do not.

I better figure out how to make this my living pretty soon, or I might go crazy.

Artists need patrons. Musicians need producers. Writers need editors and publishers and people to buy their books or they die. Playwrights need actors and audiences or they starve.

Why have the past few years felt so much harder? Why has my inability to achieve my goals been so much more difficult to stomach of late?

Why has it become so much harder for me to pretend I’m normal?

Being broke sucks. But feeling like you’re always going to be broke sucks way more.

But you know all that. You’ve been there; maybe you’ve made it out or maybe you’re still there. You know what it’s like to go to a job you loathe. You know what it’s like to live in a city that’s stealing your soul. You know what it’s like to feel like nothing will ever change.

And maybe it won’t. Maybe my day will never come and we’ll be down here struggling for the rest of our lives.

Maybe the world will never be better. Maybe the world will never be better suited for someone like me, who doesn’t know how to get stuff done, who doesn’t know how to believe in himself, who is constantly distracted and discouraged.

Or maybe the world is ripe for success and I’m just not that talented.

I might not be special. Maybe they were right, and I’m just lazy.

Maybe it’s okay to die. Not that I’m going to do anything, just the acknowledgement that death is not necessarily a failure, and some of us are meant for shorter stays here on Earth.

But maybe there is a life path that works for me, where my dreams are realized, that we don’t have to constantly struggle, where life can feel whole, fulfilled, successful.

Maybe there’s a world where the love and acceptance and full expression of my being I’ve always wanted is realized. Where I am complete, accepted for anything and everything that I am, and my talents are truly valued and cherished by the world. Maybe there’s a world where I am alive and not simply surviving. Maybe there’s a world where life is joyous and free, a game and a dance, and not an obstacle to overcome.

Maybe it’s already that.

Maybe.