Тонкое искусство пофигизма

           IwassimplybidingmytimebeforeIcouldinvesttheproperamountofenergyandeffortintogettingoutthereandmakingmymark.FirstIneededtofinishschool.ThenIneededtomakesomeextramoneytobuygear.ThenIneededtofindenoughfreetimetopractice.ThenIhadtonetworkandplanmyfirstproject.Then...andthennothing.

           Despitemyfantasizingaboutthisforoverhalfmylifetime,therealitynevercametofruition.Andittookmealongtimeandalotofstruggletofinallyfigureoutwhy:Ididn’tactuallywantit.

           Iwasinlovewiththeresult—theimageofmeonstage,peoplecheering,merockingout,pouringmyheartintowhatIwasplaying—butIwasn’tinlovewiththeprocess.Andbecauseofthat,Ifailedatit.Repeatedly.Hell,Ididn’teventryhardenoughtofailatit.Ihardlytriedatall.Thedailydrudgeryofpracticing,thelogisticsoffindingagroupandrehearsing,thepainoffindinggigsandactuallygettingpeopletoshowupandgiveashit,thebrokenstrings,theblowntubeamp,haulingfortypoundsofgeartoandfromrehearsalswithnocar.It’samountainofadreamandamile-highclimbtothetop.AndwhatittookmealongtimetodiscoveristhatIdidn’tliketoclimbmuch.Ijustlikedtoimaginethesummit.

           ThecommonculturalnarrativeswouldtellmethatIsomehowfailedmyself,thatI’maquitteroraloser,thatIjustdidn’t“haveit,”thatIgaveuponmydreamandthatmaybeIletmyselfsuccumbtothepressuresofsociety