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This Mad Need
What is this mad need?
This need to write. To compose. To create.
I've tried to convince myself I am like everybody else.
I've tried to fit in.
To get a job.
Have a career.
A family.
A home.
A normal life.
I do not seek fame.
I do not seek fortune.
Sure, I want success.
A nice, impressive house.
Nice cars.
Some new stuff.
To be able to take my children on amazing vacations.
Before they are too old to want to go with me.
But that is not the impulse to do what I do; what I've done.
If things were my objective I would make a lot more money doing what I did for years
previously, with no angst, no stress, no heartache, no despair.
But that's not true.
When I was working a regular job,
I made more money than most everyone I know.
I had a nice house.
Two new cars in the driveway.
A beautiful wife; a stay-at-home mother.
Three babies.
A pension.
A fat 401k.
Books. CDs. DVDs. Guitars.
I had it all.
Except,
I also had angst, stress, heartache, despair.
The thing I lacked, back then, most of all, was
Freedom.
Freedom of mind.
Of thought.
Of creative output.
Of time.
I had ideas.
Things to write.
To develop.
To produce.
To dream.
But didn't everyone?
Didn't other people have the same ambition?
I tried, over and over, to communicate this need to others.
Friends, family, coworkers....
Did no one else get it?
Why? They would ask.
What's wrong with you? They'd think.
You have it all.
Can't you be satisfied?
And there in that question is, I suppose, the difference.
The creative, me, has ideas.
Too many ideas.
A never-ending flow of ideas.
These ideas, I do not search for them,
They come to me,
Every day,
Every hour,
Every minute,
Every second,
One after the other,
I stress,
I do not have enough time.
Can't I be satisfied?
Yes, I had been.
I was, back then,
about money.
I had enough.
I did.
And I knew it.
The creative, I think,
Does not want this.
I love my ideas.
But I wish I could be satisfied with my life, as it was.
I wish I kept my old job.
The one where I made a lot of money.
And we had no worries.
But I think if I did, I might be dead by now,
Or things would be worse,
except for money.
I did what I did.
I had to.
I must create.
My mind demands freedom
Freedom to think
To imagine
To roam.
To develop ideas,
To write words
To compose songs
To feel emotions
To imagine lives
And to love.
I love my mind
As much as it tortures me
I love to think
I love to create
I am running out of time.
YOU ARE READING
Conversations with...
General FictionI have voices, in my head, they are talking, known only by letter, about a life I might once have had. I don't want them to stop. Not until they show me the way.
