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.

Nightmarish dreams mean dead can continue to play mind games
Leopards might not change spots, but cowardly lions can gain courage
Few things scare humans like the prospect of living, dying alone
Until you ask the right questions, you’ll never find missing answers
Is it just coincidence that my surgeries come when I’m alone?
Why do loving parents let schools teach kids to be conformists?
Why do we often attract the folks who are most destructive for us?