It's not like I'm a five year old pouting in the corner because I can't have a pony. I'm a twenty-nine year old pouting in a dead-end job dragging around an unfinished art degree like a tattered blankie. I don't talk about it either. This is one of the hardest things for me to talk about, why I don't work any more.
Sometimes I feel like those dreams were snatched from me. Paying student loans every month, if I can even afford to pay them let's be honest, feels like blood money. So, every month m-f-ing Sallie Mae is a sweet little reminder that all those hopes of a career outside of the rat race were for naught.
I'm a schmuck like every one else now. There's no paint under my fingernails and my pants never have ink or charcoal smeared all over them. The only stains on my clothes now are spit up (I really don't mind those though). Let me be clear, me not working has nothing to do with Evelyn. In fact, she's inspired at least some creativity. I quit working well before she arrived in our life.
Since I left CIA I've been twiddling my thumbs at a job I never even knew existed. Some days, yes, I make a difference. But, this isn't what I dreamt of for years.
Yes, I literally have dreamt of being an artist. I would imagine canvases, prints, the composition, the colors, the textures. I'd hear the sounds of a press and smell the ink. But I haven't in a long time. Until the other night. I finally dreamt some hazy canvas, a jumble of words.
I leave you with a Picasso quote that runs through my mind of late and a very old painting series of mine from 2006.
What to do?
Inspiration exists, but it has to find us working.
~ Pablo Picasso
|"Heal" April 16, 2006|