The Creation Race
"We might die tomorrow. We might get hit by a bus. Make something now. Otherwise, your mourners will read poetry from your elementary school projects at your memorial. I’ve seen it happen. Dare to try to make something impossible/glorious that lives beyond your life."
But I'm too sad to make anything.
Or too sick, I guess I should say.
The quote above scares me shitless. My vision for myself and what I would do for the world began tumbling out of control when I was just a little kid, really. And it never died. It simply grew up with me; it grew bigger with me; our roots cracked and escaped from our flower pot, spilling thirsty soil to the floor.
- I would write books. Yes, I would write books. Tons and tons of books - and poems and essays, too. But! They would be the kind of books that writers, great writers, would want to read. I would write objectively good books.
- Oh, and my family. I would have a familiy. I would find my best friend, my perfect match, my soulmate, and to him, I would be the most wonderful wife. We'd have healthy, smart, kind children, and I would raise them. I would see them grow up.
- Cystic fibrosis, whether it was eventually cured or not, would never hold my body hostage. Not me. I would run marathons - oh, I would be sponsored by Champion, yes, yes! - and inspire everyone around me! I would be a runner, if only for a fact that it shouldn't have been possible.
- I would create hundreds of funny, helpful, high-quality videos on YouTube for anyone to enjoy and learn from, disabled or not. Eventually I would be noticed by someone (I'd figure out who, later), and my little channel would turn into a successful Web Series. Into promotions, brand deals. Perhaps into a life of public speaking or television engagements. Wow! I would finally be able to financially support myself through my passion for communication and helping people!
- A vegan cookbook.
- Adopted, rescued animals to snuggle and love.
- My parents' mortgage (and - heh heh - my own student loans...) taken care of.
- An apartment in New York City, or a townhouse in Chicago, or a tall, drafty, Victorian cottage anywhere it rains every once in a while.
But I just feel sick.
And I don't want to make any art.
I can't, it feels.
How twisted is this, really: I'm too ill, physically and mentally, to get my fingers to type or my voice to sing or my feet to tap. I can't make art because I'm sick. But that's the entire reason I need to make art, you guys, right now, and now, and NOW.
Because I'm sick. Because I'm dying faster than I'm supposed to.
Because my time to make art - make my impact - is running out.
And if I don't pull something together soon, someone who loves me is going to read my elementary school poems at my funeral. That's such bullshit. That's such a paradox. It eats me alive on days like this, where I can only lie in bed and try desperately to stop coughing, just for a second, please, please just give me a second of relief. Please let me stop coughing. I'm in so much pain.
...yet all I want to do is sit up, open up, and make something that I can leave behind.
This is not enough. This post, these words. It's not enough.
I have more stories. I have more potential.
It's just that I simply haven't the body.