Art does not always pay very well. Or better yet, most times, art does not pay at all. At least not as far as money is concerned. I’ve been to street fairs where people sell their paintings, which are phenomenal; yet, no one knows the artist. In which case, art can be thankless.
Art can be hopeless and yet, this is when art is at its best. I say this because this is when art is at its truest. To hell with the critics and the judges. This is why I write. This is why I come here. I am here every morning before the sun comes up.

I come here because this is part of my life now. I no longer write because “I want” to be a writer. No, I write because this is who I am. This is my beauty which is personal, introspective, intimate and personal to me.

The obvious truth is words have meaning. Of course they do. This is why we use them. We use words to convey a thought or express a feeling. We use words to communicate and interact.
Words have meaning.
I agree. But what’s in a word?
I think this is an interesting question.

They say that when one door closes, another opens.  People will also say, “It can’t rain forever” and especially when we talk about heartbreak or heartache; when you find yourself at the bottom of an outcome, there is no hope. All we see is what we feel and it hurts.
Life is not without pain nor is love without trials. It is clear though, at least to me, that it is pointless to deny our feelings. Instead, we can own them. We can declare them and process them so that eventually, we can live with them.

I used to be afraid. . .
I was afraid all the time. If I’m being honest, I was afraid of everything, which is literally crippling. And I laugh when people tell me that they’re not scared. I laugh when people say, “Who cares what they think” and yet, they go on and on about what other people say. But as for me, I was afraid that someone might not like me. I was afraid to be picked last. I was afraid that I wasn’t good enough. I was afraid of shame and humiliation. I was afraid to be left out and afraid to be involved because what happens if I’m involved and I fail?
I used to be afraid of being “Found Out,” as if I were an imposter in a professional’s uniform and one day, in front of everyone, the curtains would pull back and there I’d be: Exposed!

Back in the short period of my life when I was a Cub Scout, which was only about a month or two, I was told a quote, which I believe is sincerely underused. I was told, “Be prepared.”
This is the scout motto. According to Scouting for Boys, this means “You are always in a state of readiness in mind and body to do your duty.”

Be prepared in mind, body and soul. I say this is brilliant. I say this simple quote is, above all, the most useful suggestion in our life. This goes beyond my quick stint in Cub Scouts. This lesson goes beyond the separations of boys or girls or any kind of identity.
The idea to “Be prepared” fits all.

They say this is all a journey. This is the here and now. Otherwise known as our daily life. There is a beginning to everything, a middle and then an end. However, between the two points that go from start to finish is the true substance of our life. So, please don’t spend the bulk of your time worrying or arguing. Don’t waste another minute.
I understand the worry. Where will I go? What will I do?
What’s going to happen to me?
I understand the concerns for the future. However, there is the moment at hand, which we have to consider.

I’ve seen you before. And I’m not saying “I’ve been you before.” I’m just saying that I’ve seen you. That’s all. Always on the run. Always looking for the score.
Your eyes tell a thousand stories of half-closed reveries that dangle you like an empty cobweb. Meanwhile, your eyes are telling me a different story. I can see that you want to rip through your skin. You’re sick, achy, sniffling and there’s only one cure to make this better. 

It’s funny though . . .
It all starts out as some crazy fix. It’s a fascination for the feeling of something that brings us out of this world. But there’s more to it than just the high. There’s the rituals. There’s the routine, which is more like a romance of a step-by-step habit and a sensational idea that takes place.
And I get it.

Of course, when it comes to connecting your passion to making your dreams, the bottom line is if it were easy, everyone would do it.
I imagine myself in my own little place down by a ravine in the woods. I came to this idea after reading one of Fulghum’s novels, which is described similarly but ah, I’m sure my picture is different.

I picture myself in a little log cabin. There’s a pot belly stove to keep me warm when the winter blows too cold. There’s electricity. There’s light and the ability to hear music. There’s a computer and a desk and some comfy surroundings that I have designed myself. There are bookshelves on the wall and some updated amenities, one couch and maybe a loveseat, a recliner and maybe an old jukebox and a lava lamp (the lamp is something I’ll save for another story) but mostly; there’s nothing else here but me and my thoughts, my plans and the pictures of come up with in my mind.

When I became willing to subject myself to the process, I had to find the appropriate level of care so that I could achieve my goals. Now, by definition, the word therapy means to find a curative process. This can happen in different ways. Therapy can be a task or an exercise regiment. This can be a program of relief or emotional support. Or, this can be a hobby that relieves tension and stress. 

I used to wonder about what the world looked like before I was born. Then again, it wasn’t until I was older that I came to a special realization. I came to notice that there was a time when my parents were young too. There was a time when they didn’t know who I was or what I would look like. Perhaps there was a time when they didn’t know that I would exist and that I would be part of their world. Or, maybe I was unexpected. Maybe I was wanted but at the same time, there was an idea that maybe their life would be easier if I was never born. I say this with the full understanding that at some point in life, parents were human too. I say this with the understanding that regret is felt by everyone, including parents.