I sometimes like at my life and wonder when I become the man. Ten year ago, when I was in high school (yes, it was a decade ago, let not dwell) I had these bright ideas that at twenty or twenty one I was going to move to New York City for a year.(I don’t know why it’s always NYC but it is. Very unoriginal, I know) Live in a little apartment, be extraordinarily happy and let the city teach me what I need to know about the world, so I can write about. Live my dream. Now ten years down the track I’m in an office, in a nine to five job , so I can pay my mortgage – My eighteen year old self would throw rocks at me before shaking me asking me what went wrong and she would have every right
I admire the artist and creative people that give it all to their passion and do what they love. Creative, upbeat and have faith in the talents. I wish I had that faith in myself and in what I love doing, wether that is putting pen to paper and picking up my camera and click away. I find it hard because a part of me wants to be the muse for someone else so they can create and live there dream like Pattie Boyd to George Harrison/Eric Clapton or Edie Sedgwick to Andy Warhol but there is another part of me that wants to find that muse for myself so I can let my creative spirit dancing on the clouds. Sometimes the muse, sometimes the artist. Can I do that? Is that allowed?
I always think of the musical Rent – a bunch of people living in this rundown apartment building, no money, no electricity – burning posters and screen plays to keep warm. Yes this is a romantic notion of what it is like to be an artist but nevertheless it’s what I kind of want. I want to quit my office job, lock myself up in my house or wherever I am living.
Is it ever going to happen? Do I stop myself succeeding with thoughts like this? Am I fearful that it actually happen?