I know when it started. I know the exact moment when I woke up and "knew" that it was time to move on. It was that fateful Monday morning just after I had sorted through my medical records and organized the cancer so politely. Well, the records themselves may be neat and tidy, but outside of that vinyl black binder the rest of me is flying all over the place like pieces of trash on a dry windy day.
Everything I've always wanted to do (but shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't) is spewing and oozing. . . . the lid of this pandora's box of roads not taken ripped open, and I can't stop the frenetic search for my exit strategy. . . .can't silence the obsession for something to be different right now. . . .not next year, or even next month. . . .what can I do right now to make this anxiety go away? Because I'm running out of time!
It's more than just the cancer. . . .it's also this year long stuffing of my passion down INTO the box. . . .the long slow silencing of my beautiful creative voice. Yes, I see very clearly how I must have a creative outlet or else I die inside. . . .not just a little, but like a hose under so much pressure it's uncontainable. . . uncontrollable. . . .undeniable.
Is this road to creative freedom destined to leave me jobless, homeless, and doomed to living scattered and tormented with the rest of the starving artists I find along the way? I feel damned if I do, and damned if I don't, because there is a price to be paid. . . .no matter which choice I make, there is a price to be paid. . . . .
