This morning, I’m near the end of my rope – frustrated, confounded and, yes, angry.
Angry at every person who ever said they’d read one of my books – and then never did.
Angry at every person who invited me to play a gig and then stood directly in front of me carrying on a conversation that was louder than the PA.
Angry at every person who ‘fans’ me at a website and yet, from web-stats, hasn’t listened to a single thing.
Angry at every person who told me they’d love to use me as a consultant or coach, but who then don’t return my calls.
Angry at every person who breaks a commitment they’d made to me.
And I hate it.
Because I’m angry at me more than anyone else.
Me for believing I have something worth sharing.
Me for believing that I can help people feel better.
Me for believing that there is room in this world for a baldy brit living his muse.
Me for trusting in karma, luck, randomness and, yes, hard graft.
Me for trusting in people.
Me for swallowing my red pill and stepping out of null conformity.
This morning, I risk…
Turning my back on my muse – giving it all up, going back to my corporate shape.
Turning away from helping people for good – and accepting an attitude so selfish it will cripple me.
Telling good friends to just go fuck themselves.
I want to scream at the sun for shining too bright outside the window.
I want to kick a tree for the pollen that’s cursing my sinuses.
I want to throw a guitar across the room because no-one wants to hear me play the music I want to make.
Today, I’m fucked with being an optimist, with seeing the possibilities in everything, with lifting other people’s spirits.
I’m fucked with being your shining light.
I’m fucked with trying to persuade you that
may just be able to help you move towards happiness and away from whatever is blocking you.
And I hate it.