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Caption: she walked up to my little folding table in the middle of the city, traffic humming behind her, sirens stretching like tired violins through the afternoon. she … more she walked up to my little folding table in the middle of the city, traffic humming behind her, sirens stretching like tired violins through the afternoon. she didn’t ask for a love poem. didn’t ask for heartbreak. she leaned in and said, almost laughing, “can you write about being a full-time artist, and how hard it is, especially the money part.” and the way she said it, half joke, half confession, told me everything. because nobody really talks about that part. the invoices that don’t come. the gigs that “pay in exposure.” the way rent waits for no one, not even the dreamers. i’ve stood on sidewalks for eight hours at a time selling poems for $55, smiling at strangers, pretending i’m not calculating how many more i need before i can breathe. people see the art. they see the reel. they see the romance of it, the typewriter, the notebook, the city skyline. they don’t see the doubt. the nights staring at the ceiling thinking, “should i have chosen something safer? should i have grown up differently?” being a full-time artist feels like falling in love with something that doesn’t always love you back. you pour yourself out, your stories, your heart, your very nervous system, and then you check your bank account like it might apologize. but still. there’s something holy about choosing it anyway. even if it’s unstable. even if it is scary. because what is the alternative? to silence the thing inside you that refuses to be quiet? she nodded while i read her poem. eyes glossy. like she finally felt seen in the part she usually hides. and that’s the strange miracle of it: we’re terrified. we’re trying to make art and make rent at the same time. if you’re a full-time artist struggling with money, i see you. it’s not foolish. it’s not naive. it’s brave. ♥️, SuperGirlReject less
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