Maybe a touch of the bipolar is par for the artist, but these days in my adulthood the world is either a warm and golden hopeful sunscape or a craggy stabbing ice chasm.
Today everyone is passing on my book and I am a failure. Maybe I'm still (still!) just too young, or maybe like they say, some people have it and some people don't, and I just don't.
Derek says: "If not this one, the next one." But how many times can you say that?
Greg says: "I don't care if I sell a single copy of my new album, I just want to listen to it and know I made it." But will my future be a barista job at fifty with a closet full of unpublished manuscripts? In fatuous youth I say it is preferable, but with wrinkles and sagging tits would that really be bearable?
Sam says: "Think of it this way. You're young, attractive, charismatic, and in love. That's all most people want." I don't know why that's not enough for me. I wish that thoughts of African puff-bellied children with flypaper eyes were enough to make me feel better about my life, but the knowledge that I want such unreasonable things just generally depresses me more.
My brain is so foggy. So hard to focus. Maybe it's winter and maybe it's whiskey. Worries about money. About never getting anywhere with what I love to do.