|
|
I don't even feel numb... Numb would be something, right? Perhaps I'm a Buddhist, and this is my last incarnation before Nirvana ("I'm a negative creep...")
Or, more likely, I'm chemically imballanced. If I could somehow get medical insurance, maybe I could get a happy pill to take to make me into a good consumer who knows the value of a dollar and wants to work for a living and buy neat things and try and save up for my retirement.
As it sits right now, however, my retirement plans include getting killed in some kind of automobile accident or dying of heart failure in my mid 30s. (My family has a tendency to drop dead a bit prematurely.)
But, beyond that, I haven't given the future much thought. What's the point? Being creative doesn't lead anywhere. Sure some future generations might think my paintings or stories are swell and they'll read about me in some massive anthology, a two page biography that goes something like:
"Mr. X wrote some things, but wasn't properly appreciated in his own day. He may have been a Buddhist..." and that will be it. Maybe I'll be in the same volume as Edward Gorey! That would be something...
Only, I'll be dead. Gone. Deceased. I won't be able to read it. I won't know if I'm ever appreciated or not...
Maybe that's what keeps me writing. Even when I'm lying in the street clutching my arm and gasping for breath I'll be able to think, "Maybe they'll like me later..."