Sometimes I almost grasp it, consumed in my art; the rare
moments when I’m writing and enjoying it, or when I’m completely absorbed in a
painting, and I lose track of time. I know who I am, what I want, my worth as
an individual, I can see where I’m going, there’s a path, the journey is long
but I am up for it. And then life. Life
with its mundane laundry doing, grocery shopping, floor vacuuming nonsense, swallows
me up, and I’m not a writer, an artist, or a creative. Who am I? What is any of
this for? What a waste of time and energy! How silly of me to even believe in
myself. I’m just another person with soiled garments, an empty fridge, and a dirty
carpet. I’m ordinary, I’m boring, I’m mediocre, I’m just another tired preoccupied mind, squiggly limbs,
and stretched out, exhausted muscles. I disappear, I lose my voice, my body,
the very features I foolishly thought set me apart, and become one of the
masses, I stand in endless cashier queues, I forget, I grumble at having to
scrape snow off my windshield. I need to eat and sleep somewhere clean, this is
what it comes down to. I squint, trying to remember that good line I thought of
while I was driving but couldn’t note down. It’s gone.
‘Pay rent’ the neon pink sticky note says with an exclamation
mark for emphasize. This is what comes down to, to survive, is to be basic, is
to fear, is to forget the imaginative line, but never forget to pay rent.
