Tortured Artist

I’m like a tortured lyrical genius twisted between the tragic verses of soft melody and hope of a shower before tomorrows show. Artists and runners share the same unfortunate gift of dreadful financial compensation for their worldly contribution. The top make a lot and the rest of us work meaningless side jobs to make ends meat.

Luckily running is on the upswing for me. I’m healthy, happy, and motivated. But I still can’t help but feel unsatisfied with my life outside of 100 mile weeks. I’m stuck in a standstill while seemingly everyone else is moving forward, progressing

Most of my friends don’t share my obsession with running in circles to the life little girls dream of.- they’ve got 9 to 5’s, a fiancé, and a 401k. I’ve got… the dream, which is like being on an upward elevator of self-fulfillment when running is going well and like realizing you’ve forgotten your parachute after you’ve already jumped out of the plane when you’re running poorly.

This weekend I flew home for a friends wedding. It was a gorgeous engagement of two of thesweetest people I’ve ever met. They flaunted enchanting smiles of pure happiness and sweet connection. Joy and seriously good dance moves lit up the room. And as I reminisced with other survivors of West Islip’s class of ’05 I realized I want that. I want the house, the white picket fence, and, the dream.

I’ve been trying to do it right

I’ve been living a lonely life

I’ve been sleeping here instead

I’ve been sleeping in my bed

 Sleeping in my bed

So show me family

All the blood that I would bleed

I don’t know where I belong

I don’t know where I went wrong

But I can write a song

-Ho Hey, The Lumineers

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