Sometimes I feel like my life is already over.

Of course, I know it isn’t true. I know I still have time—all the time I have left in my life. I know it is bullshit, and even thought I am now older, more tired, sicker, tired… I still have good days ahead of me. But knowing it isn’t true does not win any battle. Knowing isn’t feeling. Knowing isn’t stopping feelings of sadness, of lost potential, of unsure future days.

I am privileged to worry about a cozy, financially-secure future, I am very aware of that—and it doesn’t help with the feelings of shame that haunt me when I realize that… no, I am not feeling great. I am feeling empty. My years of struggles are behind me. I have support. I have everything I always wished for.

I did tons in my life. Tons I could (and am) proud of. Tons of mountain-climbing hard tasks. Tons of sacrifices, too.

So I’m starting late. Too late, maybe. It feels that way to me.

But at least I am starting.

I’ve always been an artist at heart. Art has consumed my thoughts all my life. I’m not artisting though. I’m still an artist wannabe. It’s both a joy and a bottomless pit of despair. I want to do so many things, and I usually can’t.

Well, no more.

I’ll deal with depression, burnout, illness—in my own way. I’ll stop the sacrifices. I’ll focus on my well-being and my aspirations.

And for once, I will only do the fuck I want to do.