Pulled in so many directions, chained to ideas and people.

Drawn and quartered, falling to pieces.  Bloody meat in the sand.

With these shackles, what do you know of freedom?

Can you paint me a picture with your hands bound?  Can sing me a song with your Bluetooth attached?

Who do you belong to?  Not yourself; please don’t lie.   You are a slave to an idea that is not your own.

You work your job with no love and no passion.  You go everyday and wish you felt proud.  You don’t, but you do.

You read your New Age inspiration; you dream yourRockyMountaindreams.

Then you see a trust-fund baby holding up a stupid sign.

“This is your life” is says, and you cringe.  You want to stop reading.  You want to find truth in this whitebread, neo-hippy crap.

You want to be one of those thin pretty girls, who are so happy with their $100 a week yoga habit and their raw food diet.   You want to talk to them, but they don’t even know you are there.  You want to be so rich that it is ok to be poor.

“If you don’t like something change it.”

You look at your life, and start counting all the things you would change.  And then all the money it would cost, and all the hours it would take.  You sell your life by the hour.  You sell your inspiration at a bargain rate.

“If you don’t like your job, quit it.”

And eat what?  And live where?  Who will help you when you are hurt and hungry?  Who will be there when you are strung out and alone?

“Open mind, passion, travel.”  Painful words, hurtful words.  Unless you are a bird.

“Life is short.”

Shorter for me than you; hours wasted in a box.  Those who are imprisoned always seem to deserve it to those who are free.

“So go out there and start creating, live your dreams and share you passion.”

You steal a few minutes from your master’s clock, and you create.  You squeeze your dry old soul, looking for a single drop of life, so you can give it away.   There is no pleasure in your passion, no joy in creation.  Only release.  Only anger, only hate.  Only the giving.

Don’t.  It is better to keep your creations to yourself, to look at them in solitude and know that you burned.  To remember that you were.   Hide them in darkness; view them by the light of single candle.     No wants them anyway, but if chance allows your words to be read the unthinkable could happen.  Someone, somewhere could find meaning in your art.  Or pleasure in your song.  Or joy in your creation.  And if that happens, you lose your soul as well.

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