The sun, my natural alarm clock, paints my unshaven face with heat. Four steps from my bed sits my computer. I write for hours, only venturing outside once for some quick sustenance among people speaking a language I haven’t yet learned. Then it’s back to my words. My creations appearing on a screen in front of me.
I’ve been waking up, in a sweat, to this vision every morning for the last week. It’s not a nightmare, though. It’s freeing.
My brain is overflowing with projects and ideas and whole worlds I can picture as if they were real and I want to develop and write and just . . . just create. For over a decade I’ve tried to balance a career with my creativity, but I’m gradually being ground down to nothing.
I hear my parents in my head as I type this. For baby boomers, life = work = money. You work hard because that’s how you support yourself and you don’t have to like it, but you do it so that eventually you can retire. By my age, my parents had three kids, two careers, two cars, a house with a pool, and a retirement fund. I have nothing. Zero. And I want even less.
A plan coalesces, piecing together every time those arctic fingers of depression crawl over me. All I need is the space to put it into play. Six months? A year? I need time to end this life, repay those who have been there, and rid myself of this detritus – this fucking debris that has become my life.
Why shouldn’t I? What can I possibly lose?
I’d rather live at a subsistence level and have the freedom to create than keep striving for this American dream, this nightmare that belongs to another generation, and be stifled. What I want out of this life, more than anything, is to make my mark. And that can’t happen right now. Not when I just keep grinding myself down to a nub.