It’s funny, right before I released my album, I had this breakdown moment where I violently started to doubt everything I was doing and contemplated scrapping this thing I’ve been working on for over a year. I didn’t think it was good enough, I couldn’t internalize the actual work accomplished, and I started feeling like a fraud in the worst way. But when you put so much of your own self, your own soul and mind into something, that work, in many ways, becomes you. In a sense, I doubted the significance of my own existence and that really fucked me up. I called my best bud and just collapsed. It took a minute to collect myself before I could actually start speaking sense to him.
I can’t recall too many details of the conversation, but we slowly inched our way to an understanding of accepting a chosen path; brazen ownership of decision. Since working on this project, I’ve been living a bit of a veiled and affected life as an artist. Creating this new reality in the safety of my room has been nice and hedonic and virtual, but now we’ve come to the point where the work produced will need to come in contact with matter and atoms and other things conscious. I’ve never had the conversation with myself that this was going to become real. Fear of being uncovered as a fake like a shockwave overwhelmed.
Avoiding the pitfall of making this sound like a saccharine perseverance story, I’ll only briefly describe the subsequent vignettes of my naive enlightenment.
I’ve come to love the work that I do. I get a high solving psychological and narrative puzzles through rhyme. If I could do just ONE thing for the rest of my life, it would be this. If this is true, so true that I can scream this into the world as loud as I can, then a decision needs to be made of whether or not I want pursue this path with all the bullshit that comes along with it; the self-doubt, the naysayers, the possibility that I might fail at all of this and wake up at 45, single and destitute, continuing to scribble something that might be called poetry.
But hell - this is exactly why I tattooed “Live for all times” on my arm. What else would or should I be doing? To what mental decay would I subject myself by doing something else, to building another person’s dream, to killing the hours of the day I can better spend walking in a park? Sense starts to deteriorate at a certain point, so just pick the path with the flowers, Pasha. And be quick about it.
Author’s Preface is but a deep inhale before the jump. I can’t worry about it any longer as there is too much work left to be done. It might not work out, but if I was forced to envision a tomorrow without a pen and a leaf in hand, well, I may just have to resign from this life.