Sunset at Montmajour, 1888 by Vincent Van Gogh Are you struggling?
(Hint: The answer should be yes).
If you’re not struggling, what are you doing here? Don’t you already have it all, or close enough to it? Or have you found out already that all isn’t good enough, not nearly enough, certainly not all it’s cracked up to be?
What the hell took you so long?
I have barely anything, but I know if I had it all I’d be 10 times worse off. No? Well, why do you see celebrities killing themselves? They had it all, didn’t they?
They sure the hell didn’t have it all when they became a celebrity, now did they? And then you get the nostalgia…always trying to get back to that point, that time when you were right on the cusp.
The best time is always the last few minutes on a Friday, the last little bit before that big vacation. It’s the anticipation, the knowing what you’ll do, but not knowing what’ll happen. That’s what you’re going for, not it’s achievement.
(Hint: The answer should be yes).
If you’re not struggling, what are you doing here? Don’t you already have it all, or close enough to it? Or have you found out already that all isn’t good enough, not nearly enough, certainly not all it’s cracked up to be?
What the hell took you so long?
I have barely anything, but I know if I had it all I’d be 10 times worse off. No? Well, why do you see celebrities killing themselves? They had it all, didn’t they?
They sure the hell didn’t have it all when they became a celebrity, now did they? And then you get the nostalgia…always trying to get back to that point, that time when you were right on the cusp.
The best time is always the last few minutes on a Friday, the last little bit before that big vacation. It’s the anticipation, the knowing what you’ll do, but not knowing what’ll happen. That’s what you’re going for, not it’s achievement.
Thomas Jefferson said that all Americans had the right to pursue happiness, but not a one of them had a right to it. And that brings us to you, the writer. Has an unhappier specimen ever existed?
Yes, the artist.
Take Vincent Van Gogh. This guy lived the life. He had no money, and he never got famous. His brother Theo supported him, which you could argue is even worse than his parents.
So this guy Vincent Van Gogh lives in rinky-dink apartments and has no life, not for months or years, but for decades. He goes crazy, and he makes art each and everyday. He eats bitterness everyday too, for when you pour your heart into something and they tell you it’s rubbish, how do you keep going and not quit?
Most don’t know the answer to that. There are very few in the world today or in the annals of history that can tell you how to get back up after you’ve been kicked down, not dozens or hundreds or even thousands of times, but a number of times that’s simply uncountable.
How do you count something that happens everyday, every second of everyday? How do you measure failure?
I suppose the bloated corpses of those that’ve given up is one measure, and they’re easily countable in cubicles across America. But really, why would you want to measure it?
I don’t think Van Gogh ever measured failure, but then I have no yardstick to measure that by. I do know that each and everyday he measured out his paints and smoothed his canvas and got to work, because there was really nothing else to do.
Yes, the artist.
Take Vincent Van Gogh. This guy lived the life. He had no money, and he never got famous. His brother Theo supported him, which you could argue is even worse than his parents.
So this guy Vincent Van Gogh lives in rinky-dink apartments and has no life, not for months or years, but for decades. He goes crazy, and he makes art each and everyday. He eats bitterness everyday too, for when you pour your heart into something and they tell you it’s rubbish, how do you keep going and not quit?
Most don’t know the answer to that. There are very few in the world today or in the annals of history that can tell you how to get back up after you’ve been kicked down, not dozens or hundreds or even thousands of times, but a number of times that’s simply uncountable.
How do you count something that happens everyday, every second of everyday? How do you measure failure?
I suppose the bloated corpses of those that’ve given up is one measure, and they’re easily countable in cubicles across America. But really, why would you want to measure it?
I don’t think Van Gogh ever measured failure, but then I have no yardstick to measure that by. I do know that each and everyday he measured out his paints and smoothed his canvas and got to work, because there was really nothing else to do.
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