How much do you want to show me? This is as much my confessional as it is yours. I reveal who I am in exchange for you showing me who you are; do you trust me to do your truth justice?
Years before this became a thing, I would bare all to my friends, a crowd, whomever would look or whomever would listen, just so long as they listened. Better out than in, I would yell. It would all be for me, not them, they were spectators to my honesty. Medicine robbed me of this, my perceived ideal of who I must become, an image that was constructed of fragile emotions and half-formed thoughts, unsustainably grew and all too easily fell apart.
I believed that that honesty would take me everywhere I needed to go, to anything I need to experience. And it did for a while. I bared my soul declaring my love for medicine and that honesty pushed me to my finals, and equally that honesty was what brought it all down. I couldn’t lie to myself, this world was no longer for me. No matter how much I would push, the act was over. A new beginning a must, regardless of the years it would take.
A creative is on their own, at least that’s how I’ve managed to understand it. I got the sense early on that I wasn’t going to be helped with this by anyone: no one will build it for you. Nor should they. You have to do it all yourself. Of course you do, it’s your own voice, it’s what you bring to the table. You have to seek out the jobs, the opportunities and reinterpret them when they finally arrive. That state of flux never ceases.
To collaborate and meld ideas, vital to stay afloat; to keep in touch.