Something that I wrote last month

Writing is hard. It is really, really, difficult. Not so much the writing itself, but the baggage that it comes with. I know I have to keep writing, I know it's the only way. But shit, it really hurts. In order to write, you have to actually consult yourself, sit down at the dinner table and look at your host square in the face. I have been sneaking in the door late at night with cheap takeout and a bottle of wine to distract myself.

Maybe I should edit the opening sentence above. Writing isn't hard—it's life that is. I went back and re-read some of my unpublished drafts, they are overflowing with pain and disappointment and confusion. For some of those words, I have a better answer, while others made my heart hurt again. I'd forgotten that I felt that way.

Today, here is where I am. I feel as though there are two sides of me and I don't know how to reconcile them. One side is emotional and artistic, a dreamer. I daydream of going away, somewhere. Publishing a book of poetry. The spiritual side, if you could call it that. It thrives on soul food. 

The other side daydreams about getting a masters, of learning about economics and reading the news. Being a professional. Owning a house. Those words sound empty and false. Maybe they are. It is my spiritual side's distain for the societal influence, the status-seeking ego. 

Can I make them both happy?