We all have to face economic realities.  One of mine is that I have devoted too much of myself to one client and it is possible that I may be paying the price.  If my fears are realised, I will soon have to start looking to work for someone else again.  The irony is that under this new pressure, the words and ideas that failed to come for so many months have suddenly come crashing forth.  I have ideas for short stories and my concept for In Pursuit of Passion has exploded into something far larger and, to me at least, far more exciting.  My fear is that if I return to full time work, I won’t have the time to devote to any of this although I am forced to admit that having the time isn’t the same thing as finding the words.  If there was ever a possibility that I could earn a living from my ideas, was I ever prolific enough to do so?

I find myself caught between the sorrow of giving up on the dream and the fear that I never really believed that I was good enough to live it anyway.  Fully aware that I have questioned my qualifications time and again to write, to theorise and to dream.  That I have fully embraced the belief that society is insane and that the only sane reaction is to distance yourself from it but that I have never had faith in my own ability to function outside of societal requirements.  Society is a raging madman that I want to steer well clear of but he also happens to be my bank manager, my employer, my landlord and the proprietor of my local supermarket.  If I want to avoid him I have to cut myself off from the familiar altogether and I’m not sure that I have the balls to do that.

I believe that I have until the end of the year to develop something that can justify this continued existence.  I’m not sure that I can pull that particular cat out of the bag.


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