I don't really know how else to say this,
so I'll just write it.
Every once in a while,
all this stuff will come welling up
from somewhere in my gut,
into my heart and head,
and I have to write it or I'll be miserable.
My roommate tells me I grind my teeth at night,
and for the millionth time, I think:
Why did God (or evolution, or both)
give me all this mental shit?
Why, after like ten years of therapy,
do I still grind my teeth,
do I still feel detached,
do I still suffer?
But then another thought comes,
and this is the one I carry gently in my heart
like a wounded bird:
Without my pain, I would not be writing,
I would not own an art gallery,
teach English,
run for city council,
make art.
Without my pain,
I would be another ordinary consumer.
It is my pain that has shaped me,
that still compels me to create.
So I will bear it.
I've never been too good at fitting in,
and the older I get,
the more thankful I am for this.
I woke up from another dream
about my novel.
In the dream, I felt so defeated,
like I am a failure for not really
trying to get it published,
but then I awoke and dreamed a different dream,
which is real:
A small, independent publishing company,
right here in good old Fullerton:
Hibbleton Press.
I will self-publish because my ethos is becoming:
My dream is local.
I don't need international fame and fortune.
If I can do what I love
here in the town I live in,
and make a difference,
i will be content.
And I am doing it. Now. I am doing it.
I can't solve the problems of the world,
but I can make the place where I live a little better.
And together, we can make it amazing.
I think, without my pain,
I would be content with a wife,
two kids,
a house,
some corporate job.
But, thank God, I was spared just in time.
My pain, my strangeness, set me free.
