It’s been almost 30 years since I figured out — much to my surprise — that what I really wanted more than anything else vocationally was to be an artist. And I’ve spent most of the years since then explaining to myself over and over why this isn’t possible.
After enough reasonable explanation, I start getting numb to what I want. I forget what it feels like. I turn my attention elsewhere and tell myself that realistic people do other things. Maybe I can make filmmaking a hobby if I do really well for awhile at something I hate.
Doesn’t that make sense? I can make a few hundred thousand dollars a year as a real estate broker. How about that? Isn’t that more realistic? Sure. Why not. I’ll do that. It all makes so much sense. And it sounds so responsible.
And so I start burying what I know — every now and then, at least — that I want. Until somebody comes along and pokes a stick at something I try hard not to look at.
That’s what happened today.

Flawed bricks can build our lives, because perfection never arrives
In defense of the legal right to anonymous speech, political lies
A heart that’s open to love can lead you to unexpected places
She had issues that scared me, but I felt loved and understood
What if we’re more talented than our inner fears allow us to admit?
Does the ocean offer the best chance of escaping the state?
‘Tolerant’ left seethes with hate if you don’t accept ‘gender theory’