When I came out it wasn’t a closet. It was a trashcan.
I’ve known for a long time what I am or I should say who I am.
I am an artist. The most precious blessing and the most horrific curse. Forsaken and trampled. Survival is rough. I must persist.
“Resistance is futile” as the Borg say on Star Trek. I cannot assimilate with this world. I am an artist. It’s not a choice. It’s not a lifestyle. It’s the way I was born. I nurture it when I’m not fighting it.
“Get a job” you say.
I have a job, thank you.
I have a job. I must create to live. To feel. Alive.
It’s my job.
I like my job but the pay sucks so far.
Writing and drawing is my life. Your career or your family is your life and art is mine. Why do you push your life on me? I never tell you to be an artist. Far from it. I say “stay away from it unless you are already wealthy.”
There were times I considered and even convinced myself I wanted to be like you. I wanted to fit in. I wanted to be liked, loved and accepted. The older I get and the less I want your life the harder it is to live mine. I have no choice really.
I can’t change my skin color, my sexuality or my need to create. I guess I have to change my acceptance of you.