I have read stories about the starving artists. I read about how they lived most of their lives unheard of or unknown. I have read stories from different poets and writers about their years of rejection and, through it all, I can relate to the aches and pains. I can relate to the frequent bouts with hopeless rants that take place when we are alone or when the world turns in a poor direction.
I can relate to the words, “I quit!” Yet, somehow, I come back around the next day to ante up again, and see where the day takes me.
Do you know what else I think about?
I think about words.
I think about the words that we say to each other. I think about the words like stupid, or loser, or the word disgusting. I think about the ability of an insult and how this can cut deeper than any blade. I also think about the emotional infections that happen when the soul gets cut like this.
I think about the mark that words leave behind, or how words can kill us, especially when they come from someone we love. Even worse, I think about what happens to the heart when insults come from someone who is supposed to love us.
There comes a time when denial falls short.
There is no way to dismiss the truth and no amount of pretending can delay us from the facts that have been placed in front of us.
No more lies. No more excuses.
There’s no place left to hide from reality and ready or not, there is no room left to buffer between us and the truth. Sometimes, the truth hurts.
So do lies.
Life is all too real now.
No more acting with hopes that something can change. No more helpless prayers and no more begging or pleading with the powers that be.
No.
This is where life begins. There is no more room for hysteria and there is no time to waste.
At the same time, this is not an excuse, nor does this justify the right to quit.
This is just a wakeup call. Nothing more.
Nothing less.
You have to dream. You have to aspire.
You have to hope, and you have to give yourself something to live for or look forward to.
There are times when we have to cut our losses.
There are times when the most beautiful people in our life can turn ugly.
I have seen this and, to be clear, I don’t ever want to see this again.
There are times when we have to close up shop. There is a time to end all things and, yes, there is a time to begin something new.
You will have to surrender, or if for no other reason than to move on and recover, you will have to surrender to win.
I cannot live in my losses.
I cannot change them or reargue them or relitigate what happened, nor can I plea my case again. What’s done is done.
The past is gone and so is yesterday. So are my reasons or my aspirations and, to some extents, so are the value of yesterday’s dreams.
These things are gone.
Or maybe they have been gone for a long time.
Or maybe I believed a lie (or two).
I cannot give way. I cannot allow the critics to overcome or overwhelm me.
I cannot allow misfortune or rejection to define or dictate whether I stay or go, or whether I quit or continue.
This is another beginning.
This is a new day. Just to be clear, yesterday’s enemies are where they’re supposed to be—trapped in the past and since the past is gone, so are they.
So are their lies and insults which says more about them than it says anything about me.
I have not made the best choices.
But at least, I chose to ante up.
Some people never try.
Some people play it safe.
Some people can live and be fine with where they are.
But, you know what?
At least I played my hand.
I might not have played it well.
But at least I played with all of my heart.
As for my writing goes, sure, I know all about my imperfections. I know all about the grammar police. I know that I am me, you are you, they are them, and that despite my flaws or despite the insults or words like, stupid, or loser, or despite the other words used to hurt someone, I admit to them.
I see where this can be true.
At the same time, I am still here, and I am still writing.
I am still open to the aspects of love or to the fact that some day, I will find my place in the circle
I never stopped trying and I never will.
I know about the pains of rejection. I have been called more names than I care to report.
And sure, I have been called these things by enemies, which is never a surprise although insults are never fun to begin with—but ah, when these words come from someone you know, or when these words form from someone you love or from someone who says they love you, well?
I see how this can destroy the heart and the soul.
I can how words can hurt longer than a physical wound.
I can see how one word can end everything with no hopes to reconcile, no way to make peace, and as the means to an end, I can see how this leads to a wake-up call.
I am east of the battlegrounds and north of what took place.
This means I am removed from either side.
I am gone and removed. Once more, I am circling back to where life begins—right here, at the beginning, humbled of course, but at least I’m still here.
Life can build you up or tear you down.
This is true.
Hence, I was thinking about some of the poets who lived most of their lives in broken down shacks, old apartments, poor as ever, and with no one to cheer for them or to love them when they ache.
I was thinking about how their rejection letters tore them apart.
I was thinking about their right to endure and the ability to continue, even when you’re told, countless times, “Give it up. No one likes you.”
And no one ever will.
I have been told this before.
More than once.
I will be told this again too.
At the same time, I think about the artists that refused to quit. I think about the writers who found their success at the end of their life.
This might be how it goes for me.
I might not make it and I might never be called upon.
But at least, I’m still here.
I might build something and never have the chance to see what this becomes.
Or I might hit the big time!
I might open the door to some new thing, and whether I am alive to see this or if I am too old to understand, or even if nothing happens, I know that I cannot stop or quit or listen to critics or believe the insults that come from either direction.
I may not be the smartest man . . .
But I can say that at least I tried and at least I dared.
I might make stupid choices.
But at least I choose to try
I didn’t settle.
I didn’t stay where it’s safe.
I might have lied throughout my life but at least my life isn’t a lie—as in one big lie, and whether I make my way or not, at least I can say that I anteed up.
I have to dream. I have to aspire.
And I have to try.
Life without dreams is like life without breath.
This is like living without food or water.
And I admit it.
I’m hungry and thirsty.
I may be imperfect, and I might be an acquired taste.
But at least I’m here.
At least I’ll take the risk.
I anted up.
Even if I lost, at least I played my hand.
I didn’t fold or settle.
(Like some people)
I anteed up and do you know what else?
I’ll do it all again too.
But hey, what do you expect from someone who makes stupid choices?
Right?
The Written Addiction 