Make your urn

The fantastical narrative I promised to 'adult me', when I was a child haunts me. I drag it with me to every party, where I don't speak, at every job where I self-sabotage, every restless night, and exhausted morning, it drives my car faster, than what is safe, and leaves marks on my ego that cannot be healed. The frustration of being where I had never expected and living a life I had feared clings to me like scum to the bottom of a ship. Why did I take that nap? If there is a fine line between being nice to yourself and self-indulgence I have lapped it, then sat in the stands watching the replays over and over again. I am a sculptor who cannot stop buying more clay, for that masterpiece I know is inside of me, but just let's his blocks harden and die for fear of getting his hands dirty. Why am I so afraid to make a misshaped urn? Where is that childlike wonder that set me on this path, that let me sail into the horizon with no path, confident I would hit land? Giving up on a dream feels so good at 2pm on a rainy day with a box of movies at your side, and yet feels like torture just before midnight, another day coming to a close, no closer to where you dreamed you'd be. An unfulfilled artist yearns for a coma, just so he can sleep a little longer. The responsibilities of his chosen duties snatched away and the guilt nowhere in the ether. Do you know what it feels like never living up to your own expectations? Yes, says everyone simultaneously in a whisper, with a sigh. The collective conscience answers back: make your urn, it will be imperfect and perfect all at once. The beauty will be in its faults, the joy will be in the process.