WHY I LEFT
Okay, I was being silly. The title should be, Why I Write.
I have to write. I must write. I must write my thoughts and feelings out everyday. If I do not, then I do not feel left. (There I go being silly again.)
In boxes and boxes and more boxes, I have papers and journals dating back to the Big Bang. I suspect my family will throw these boxes out after I leave my body for a better climate.
My family and some friends do not think much of my creative career. They have criticized me ever since I quit my secure, high-paying job to creatively pursue poverty and starvation. Quitting my job was not a wise move financially. I admit that. Emotionally, quitting my job was the wisest thing I did. It began my journey from my head to my heart. I hated my job, and it was killing me. I listened to my heart and quit. Family and friends do not understand.
“You should never have quit,” they say.
“But I hated going to work. It stressed me out! The job was killing me,” I say.
“We know, but you should never have quit. You were earning good money,” they say.
“But it was killing me!”
“Still, you should never have quit. You’d be on pension by now if you had stayed.”
I am making progress journeying from my head to my heart. I could never write about my feelings, or my writing before. I felt ashamed about expressing my feelings. I felt ashamed about my writing. I still have some reluctance about expressing my feelings and writing, but I write anyway. It feels right! (Didn’t get silly that time.)
Expressing your feelings is hard; expressing them creatively is harder. It takes courage. You have to go to those dark places inside that no one wants to go to. It is hard work.
My family and friends have a limited view of work. To them work must involve digging ditches and heavy lifting. They have no idea how hard it is to face yourself on that blank page everyday.
“When are you gonna get a real job,” they say.
Bastards! I have a real job! This is my real job! I am always working. Emotionally I am digging ditches. Emotionally I am lifting heavy things. I am not making a lot of money, but I am still here. I have survived many deep, dark moods without killing myself. Writing saved me! What is that worth?
Why do I write? I write to survive!