The artist, not the art

I like to think of myself as creative. Maybe sometimes think artistic. It’s creative thinking. I have done things, achieved great heights, produced something to be proud of; in my mind. The harsh truth: it’s too much work to make it real.

Art without working is an empty place. It doesn’t exist. Outside my mind I have never made anything. Nothing of significance anyway. I just imagine it being already done. The book written. The symphony composed. The painting finished. The rewards assured.

That person isn’t me. I just want to drink beer. And forget.

Imagine it already done.

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