I’m terrified of dying homeless and alone.
I realize this in no way makes me unique, but it has been at the forefront of my mind lately.
As of tomorrow, I will be working only part-time at my job so that I can focus more on writing fiction.
I’ve watched my peers become more and more settled, while I’ve felt nothing but uprooted. I was born and raised in the suburbs, thinking that was the be all end all. Now just the thought of it chokes off my breath.
Rationality tells me to keep working as I have been, plugging away and saving money. I enjoy my job, it is the best I have ever had, working with great people towards positive ends.
And yet…if I do nothing else in this world and do die homeless and alone, I would want the time between now and then to be filled with writing, even if no one gives a damn. Creativity and passion seem to be the only things that compensate for the absurdity of this life. Both of which, of course, are simply forms of love. And in the end, that’s it.
Nothing great ever came from doing the sensible thing.
Here’s to art.