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.

Why can we sabotage ourselves?
Widow: ‘Things that mattered yesterday do not matter today’
Jobs are created from ‘selfish’ acts; they don’t just exist on their own
Correcting an old error: there’s no such thing as ‘We the People’
Why are you and I forced to pay for free phones for certain folks?
My father’s death was proof that unhappiness quickly kills a man
‘Vast military-industrial complex’ keeps growing and keeps killing