Jeff Cross

Am I “The Starving Artist”?!

// December 22nd, 2009 // Personal

A starving artist, living in a loft apartment/studio, always working, creating wondrous works of art, staying up late, sleeping off and on throughout the day. Like a mad scientist on the brink of the next greatest scientific discovery. Always focused on the end result of the creation, never taking his eyes off of it long enough to face that he is alone and truly unfulfilled.

He receives praise from the public for his work. There are exhibitions displaying his work, he makes his appearance, and then he’s back to the lair. If he stays busy enough he won’t have to face reality and the loneliness that he wears like a wet suit, so close and almost a part of his very being. The busier he stays, the opportunity he has for dealing with past hurts or for having to explain and face his emotions is drastically decreased. Always lying to himself and saying “I’ll make time for a social life tomorrow” but that tomorrow never comes. He’s slowly become an introvert. A drastic difference from the once outgoing socialite he was.

When he leaves the hideout he barely recognizes what’s become of the outside world. So much has changed while he’s been tucked away in the safety of his padded and protected world. He doesn’t stay out long. He’s too vulnerable while outside of the protection of his work. While he’s out he thinks he is part of the “real world”. He plays the role, bumping elbows with the right people, making appearances when and where necessary. However, internally he longs for the comfort of his work. He longs to be behind closed doors preoccupied with anything that can keep his mind off of the past, the present, and where he’ll be in the near or distant future.

He’s good at certain things and focuses all of his energy on that. He wants to continue to excel at these things. Why try things that you don’t do well at?! Consistency does not count when failure is the repeated outcome. He just remains focused… focused… focused… Focused on everything but the things which truly matters. He’s living with an escape, day and night. It truly comforts him as a blanket and the warmth of a fireplace does one in the cold of winter. Honestly, the cold of winter is what he walks in daily, minute by minute. It’s so cold, he’s become numb and can’t see the slow decay that the frostbite is causing to the delicate tissue of his personality, emotional state, and his very soul… eventually working its way from the inside out devouring his very physical being.

Is it a dream or a reality?! I hope I wake up soon from this deadly slumber… I toss and turn, determined to break this cycle, hoping to never rest in this coffin of complacency and solitude again. The destiny of this type of existence is to die alone… Wake up…

Until next time…