I Am a Sell Out

My friends have asked me to come and see them perform their pieces,
and I have successfully been able to avoid every single one.
Getting out of commitments has become my niche.
I have come up with every excuse possible, from having walking pneumonia,
to visiting family in Germany (even though I have none there).
I’ve had the measles four times,
broke my ankle twice;
I somehow convinced my friends that you have two livers and I had to have one removed;
my imaginary lizard ate my keys,
and I have used “girl issues” more times than I can even remember.
I don’t want my friends to think I’m unsupportive, but the reality is, I cannot watch them pursue their dreams.

Yes. I cannot watch my friends pursue their dreams.
Wait! I know what you’re thinking, but I’ve never been a hater in my entire life, and I love to see others do well and succeed.
I applaud their tenacity, resilience and commitment to their craft.
But my adamant resistance to attending their performances has nothing to do with them, and everything to do with me.
See, I can’t bring myself to watch them pursue their dreams because if I do, it will cause me to bring attention to—and have to cope with the fact—that I have sold out on mine.
I, too, once dreamed of being a starving artist, allowing my craft to sustain me.
Working so hard that every phrase I said sounded like poetry, and every quote of mine would be deemed worthy of being turned into a meme, something that is inspirational to the masses.
I imagined that the words I used to tell stories would be so compelling, people would have to take a moment of reflection and self-evaluation.
I wanted my words to have intent and purpose.

I miss feeling words.
I miss snapping my fingers when another artist moves me.
I miss hearing such eloquent flows that inspire me.
I dreamt of my craft being my meat and potatoes. I wished for it to be the elation of my journey, giving me such unmatchable pleasure, all other parts of my life would be the equivalent of a redheaded step-child.

But, I sold out.
Seeing my friends reminds me of my deplorable decision to chase money and corporate success and deny the very thing that once gave me purpose.
I desperately work to intentionally bury it deep down inside and try to destroy it, but it seems to pop up every time I see someone with artistic passion.

That part of me still exists,
and I hate that part of me.