I'm scared.
I'm scared none of my dreams will come true. I'm scared that no matter how hard I write, no matter how good I get, all I'll get is nowhere. I've had a long string of bad luck in a short life. Disasters, heartbreaks, and accusations have just been the norm, punctuated by moments of joy or excitement. Maybe it's the other way around, honestly. This could be drama forged out of reflection, the desperation of a view moments coloring an entire lifetime. Maybe I've had an ultimately good life, punctuated with a few terrible moments.
The thought doesn't dispel the idea of this invisible cloud hanging over me.
People say that you should practice your art only for the sake of it. That way the material is better, and you're happier for it. It's honestly sound advice. It makes sense. If you pursue anything else, then you're likely to drive yourself mad.
It's advice you can't follow when you follow the dredge of the nine to five. It's advice that you can't accept when you want to become something more than you are. It's something you simply can't tolerate when you want to make your mark on history and the world. You see your heroes riding to glory, and you want desperately to be among their number. Maybe others won't make it, but you have to. You're the hero of your narrative, and the hero always succeeds.
Except life has taught me differently. We're not the main characters, perhaps not even secondary, but part of a grand narrative that moves on with or without us. Success is hard, and failure comes so much more easily. Maybe this book will fail, and the next one, and the next ten to boot. I'll love the art, but in time I will come to hate myself. It's not writing that betrayed me, that beacon that made me better, but ultimately myself, that fallible person and the unlucky lot he was born into. That thought is terrible to behold.
It scares me.
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