I had a birthday, and while I don’t feel “old” I am starting to realize how far removed I am becoming from my “youth”. A decade ago I was a world weary cynic who thought he would be going somewhere in life. I wanted to be an artist and I wanted to do important things. Now ten years removed I am a world weary cynic who is wondering what happens to dreams when they die and is questioning the choices I have made. I still want to do important things and to be an artist, but I am afraid (and have allowed that fear to control my life) that my particular wants and dreams are irrelevant and that I am a talentless hack.
I am a dreamer, but I wonder what happens to guys like me when the real world and adult expectations meet hope and frivolity. I know I’m not going to fade away, but I don’t want to be a pagliacci esque figure that has become broken and destroyed by life. I’m just getting older, and while I don’t feel like it, I see evidence of it creeping up on me. I don’t mind getting old, age brings perspective but it raises uncomfortable questions and the question that is on my mind right now is does “responsibility” supersede personal ambition or do we tell ourselves that it must to diminish our human potential. Maybe in my case it’s a lack of focus that is my predicament and not ambition, or maybe my belief in my talent is delusional; either way I feel like I am afraid to take that risk to find out the truth. I just can’t find a way to plunge headfirst, and it’s evident that the cautious thoughtful approach isn’t the path worth taking. I never thought I would be a famous artist or anything like that, but ten years ago I certainly thought I would be far more successful. I’m grateful that I’m not working at a Publix, but I thought I would be doing something more substantial than my current occupation, and I dread what horrors I will bring to myself in the next decade.
It’s easy enough to say, I’ll paint more, I’ll draw more, and I’ll write more, but having responsibilities often times truncates the time we can allocate to our artistic endeavors. I think there is a degree of selfishness required to be successful at things because you have to have a singular vision and not allow the whims of others to corrupt it. I’m selfish to be sure, but not possessed by the special egotism that can produce accomplishments. I don’t want to be the sort of guy ten years from now who goes to a museum and thinks about what could have been, I don’t want to work a crummy job, and I don’t want to hate myself; but I have no idea how to not do those things. It’s not as if there is some book out there that gives practical reality based advice on how to navigate the frequently murky waters of adulthood. The simplest answer is just do it, and fuck the consequences. It’s very elegant in its simplicity but I have a girlfriend, and let’s suppose I apply again to grad school, and let us suppose I get accepted, would I be the sort of person who would say pack up your life and come with me, or would I say I have a wonderful opportunity but I love and respect you but I can’t in good conscience disrupt your personal life.
Dreams and aspirations are mutable things, but I feel sometimes that mine are slipping further and further away as I slip into the loving embrace of mediocrity. I wanted to be an artist from the time I was a little boy who just finished seeing Pinocchio, I work for the state. Words can’t express the sort of disappointment I feel sometimes.
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