In My Head
I have this constant feed of scenarios and ideas and half-formed stories running through my head that would suffocate me if I didn’t push them out regularly—writing them, saying them, singing them, just getting them out somehow. The method changes, but the need doesn’t.
The thing is, I can’t do any of that if someone’s watching or if the place itself is dead. I need to feel alone and genuinely free—no surveillance, no mediocrity sucking the oxygen out of the room. I need to be working on something that actually pulls at me, something I care about, or everything I make comes out hollow.
That’s impossible in most normal work situations. Show up, execute a vision you didn’t create, hit metrics you didn’t set, for money that barely covers your time. Year after year of tasks with no point beyond surviving another month. And it wears you down in a way that’s hard to describe until you’re already there—one day you just don’t believe anymore that anything could change.
A creative life needs real conditions. Sunlight. Loud music. A table with actual food. Time with people who understand it. Space to fail. Room to breathe. You have to be adding something—making it richer or stranger or more beautiful—or the whole thing feels like a con.
My choices make no sense to anyone else. They look irrational, doomed, like I’m just setting myself up to fail. Maybe I am. But they follow a logic that’s only visible from inside my head, and that has to be enough. Because there’s so much more to being alive than always making the sensible choice, always looking right, always taking a path someone already carved.
The thing that actually terrifies me is waking up one day trapped in a life I can’t escape—all fear and emptiness and nothing moving—because I chose the safe thing too many times and let the part of me that pushed for more just die.
I’m not going to let that happen.