Sitting on a couch and writing, the world seems so far away. A stream flows down a short waterfall. I’d like to think I am going to create something. A work of art, a novel, a life worth remembering. The coach tells me I can do anything. Aim for your dreams, aim for the moon, and land in the stars. Maybe I could be a good author. Someone who writes in various forms for a living. The coach tells me I can earn a living following my dreams. But the other voice tells me the world is not a place for artists, dreamers, poets or writers to make a living. You can’t live off your dreams. This world hasn’t been for dreamers since VanGogh. It values fast and cheap. It does not value people or the creative process. The little they pay artists for their work couldn’t support anyone. News is a job, but it isn’t my dream. I enjoy news. But I do not love news. My coach tells me to write about what I know and what I enjoy writing. And the other voice tells me to write what people want to read. It feels like the world is a more and more angry place every day and I don’t want to write about anger. To dream is to love and my coach says the world needs both love and dreams.
Where am I going?
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