I've been trying to decipher the difference between people who are genuinely happy - genuinely contented, genuinely fulfilled - working full-time, clock-in/clock-out kinds of jobs compared to those who are not.
To clarify even further, I don't mean the teacher who is passionate about teaching who works a full-time teaching job, or the mayor who is genuinely passionate about city government working their full-time job ...
... I mean the bank teller, the grocery store clerk, the corporate manager, the telemarketer, the auto salesperson.
I know people that work jobs like that for years ... years ... and they're happy. And the thought of losing their jobs is terrifying to them. They might not always like what they do, but they're not miserable. Not like I was, anyway. These are people with hobbies and interests like the rest of us, who are willing to trade in hours of their lives in order to maintain a particular lifestyle.
I can't think of anything outstanding that isn't presumptuous or narrow-minded. Nothing that really explains what I'm feeling.
See, when I graduated college and entered the workforce, it seemed as though some invisible force came along and snuffed out my muse. Obviously it didn't, as there have most definitely been embers burning hidden beneath the ash all this time, occasionally kindled by something or another, resulting in a song or poem or story idea or even a post like this. But as I became more fixated by my ever expanding to-do list (which seemed to grow more after I left work to stay home with my daughter than to shrink) my ability to produce really dwindled.
I remember being told that my daughter would become my muse. It would be a lie to say that she isn't, because she is, but not like you'd think. She's more of a motivator than anything - a motivator, as opposed to a muse. I look at her and am not inspired to write or create, at least, not on my own. I look at her, and I'm more inspired to spend time in nature with her, to throw some paint around with her, to try a new cookie recipe with her, to clean, organize, declutter, give her a better place to live.
The stuff that inspires me to create hasn't changed. Above all, "love" inspires me. I say "love" in quotes for one reason in particular:
I've never loved anyone like I love my husband. What I feel for him is perhaps the most genuine feelings of affection I've ever felt for anyone, and yet his presence in my life has probably only really inspired a handful of songs, compared to the dozens upon dozens I've written for all the other ones - whatever it must have been that I felt for them.
But ... yeah. "Love" inspires me. Love between others, misunderstood love, complicated love. Angry love. Stupid love.
People are idiots when they think they're in love. They do stupid things. Perhaps what's more stupid are the plethora of things that they don't do.
I'm also inspired by platonic relationships. I'm inspired by the fact that, as a girl - a burgeoning woman at 26, I guess - I still don't understand exactly why girl friendships seem to be so much more egg-shelly than guy relationships. I mean, I have my theories, but they're just theories.
I'm inspired by people ... interacting. Why we are how we are. Why we do what we do. Why not some other way? What's the worst that could possibly happen?
Anyway ... that was all an incredibly awful segue to my main point: I know I'm supposed to live a creative life, but I don't really know what that entails.
I'm terrified that if I start working full-time as a librarian on my master's degree, my financial worries will be quelled right along with what's left of this creative drive I still have.
In my life, I have to write more music. I have to write a film. I have to write some short stories. I have to do all these things. I need to take more risks. I was never so afraid to just do that which comes naturally to me as I am today.
I'm all ready to rip this entry apart because I don't feel like it's particularly well contained, but I'm not. I'm just going to keep drinking my iced coffee and try to be happy that I wrote.
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