So, I’ve been working on a book and it’s been kicking my butt. Probably because the more I type, the more I realize that it’s a dream. Then I think on the types of people that thrive on real jobs, the kind where you sit down and repeat tasks, knowing that you’ll get X amount for it at the end of the week. That makes them happy. Maybe.
But I exist on dreams. I survive because of them, and a lot of the time, for them. It’s like food that never satisfies. I stuff my belly full of dreams, so that I can make room for more, but I’m never full. Like a starving artist.
What a state of existence. Hungry.