Creative Psychosis

Turning 30 was rumored to be a personal disaster: where I’d find myself in a shadowy corner wrapped around a bottle of throat burning liquor, wallowing for my lost youth. It did not work out that way though. My 30th birthday came and went this week without much thought on the subject, despite my penchant for doing so in the past. But this is progress for me, and I’ll toast a frosty brew to that.

It’s nice to know that losing your twenties really is just another silly myth we fear. It was difficult to be certain about that before now. I made a lot of stupid decisions in my twenties. The likes of which I’d rather forget about. Being 30 allows me to turn a page on all of it. Instead, I’ve now come to appreciate the wisdom I’ve gained from all of the failures and rejections that have dragged me down over the last ten years.

So I’m optimistic I will not have to live vicariously through material possessions, having kids, or going on vacations in order to find meaning in my thirties like most people seem to. The path of a creative person is never pretty, but I feel it’s far more fulfilling than anything else I could possibly be doing as a career or hobby.

Just because I don’t have the level of daily energy I used to, or know that gray hair and wrinkles are just five to ten years away, that does not mean I’m going to give up on my goals anytime soon. I still dream of having an efficient career without having to be routine, to constantly evolve my creative focus, and try as many new things in life as possible.

Sure, I just exhaled a couple paragraphs of pipe smoke there, but I sincerely mean it. When I turn 40, I honestly believe I’ll look back at this point and say, “This is where I finally got my shit together.” Feel free to check back then, and call my bluff.