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.

How long will I keep finding toxic programming from my childhood?
Trust and spontaneous order don’t require heavy hand of the state
Meet the new neighbors: Why rules aren’t always such a bad thing
‘Vast military-industrial complex’ keeps growing and keeps killing
Sex is everywhere in our culture, but we’re starved for intimacy
Do people change? Or do we just learn how to manage our faults?
I don’t care where Pedro is from, but I’m happy he’s my neighbor
Rights or choices? It might be time to re-frame the debate