I was given a gift one day, out of the blue. It hit me like an eighteen-wheeler with a drunk driver. Everything made sense, even the chaos it caused. I had no formal training, but I was able to mold ideas and images in my mind into so much more. Everything was rough, unpolished. I worked at honing this gift, turning it into a skill set, using it daily, hourly, never letting it go.
But the world won’t always allow you your passion. Hours, most of the waking day is spent toiling away for fat men living their fat lives. They’ll toss you some crumbs, enough to keep you happy in your own private mediocre corner of living purgatory they used to call the “pursuit of hsppiness”. More like the pursuit of middle-ground if you ask me.
So the gift is almost ignored out of the need to eat and live, but not forgotten. Eventually it’s taken out daily, hourly, glances stolen, chances taken. It’s hidden in the shoulder bag, brought out on the kitchen table, taken to the park on weekends.
It’s not a secret, but something quiet, something secure, something comforting.