peace (a personal narrative)

When I was young, I used to love to listen to the radio, and imagine what it would be like for someone to be so interested in me and my work, that they’d ask me all these carefully selected questions, and listen with rapture, and thank me profusely for my time afterwards. It was always my favourite thing to do on long car rides home.


I come from a family of people who almost made it; a long line of close brushes and has-beens. Sometimes, I imagine all my ancestors’ dreams, hovering over my shoulders, and ducking under my skin.

When I was young, I thought that someday, the whole world was gonna scream my name. I thought I’d do whatever I’d took–I’d push all my friends away, I’d leave my family in the dust, I’d accept any deal I was given. Any chance to make my mark. To make the world a better place, I hope. Because those two things aren’t always the same.

It’s hard, not to romanticize the tragedy of it all. The tortured celebrity, who has everything in the world, who’s loved by so many people, and still hates themselves. Drowning in all that glory, and attention, and money. Honestly, it’s hard not to romanticize having, period. Not having to worry about rent and food and electricity. Knowing whatever you want, you have enough money to pay for it. And whenever someone needs help, you’ll be able to help them without a second thought. It’s a good problem to have.

I spent my entire childhood holding the weight of generations worth of dreams on my shoulders. I have grown up hungry, for something, anything more than an average life. But where that used to inspire me… now it just feels heavy, and impossible. Like I’ve already failed before I’ve even started.

I want to be happy. I want to be reasonable. I want to do everything right, I want to show the world how good I can play the game. How strong I am, how wrong they were. I want, and I want, and I want, a thousand different things, most of which I can’t afford.

I want to make art. It’s the thing that makes the world spin around, that snaps me out of my darkest moments. I love it, more than anything else. But I don’t want to be a tortured artist. I don’t want to suffer for a dream. I want to be known and adored, to have the entire world sing my praises–but the idea of people criticizing me makes me feel like I’m collapsing inward like a dying star. I feel so young–soft, and small, and vulnerable, like a baby deer at the edge of the highway just begging not to get hit.

And… shit. I think I might have spent the past three years writing about how all I ever wanted was to be at peace. Not… to give up everything, for this massive career, and more money than I know what to do with. Not to change the entire world, not to be unforgettable, at the cost of my own sanity.

Just to be happy. To have a good job, a good life, and nice things. Success that didn’t come at the cost of my happiness. Maybe that doesn’t sound like the most revolutionary idea, but trust me. It is.

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