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.