There are some nights where I lay there and stare at the ceiling wondering one thing as I drift off to sleep: what does it mean to take my art seriously?
Sometimes I dream about what I’m doing with music and what I maybe ought to do with writing, but when I wake up the answers disappear like the sun burning away the morning mist. Perhaps it was only ever a dream that I understood, but I wish it would stay with me all the same.
I’m 41 now, and I honestly think I may never understand. But perhaps that is okay.
