On Being

Daydreams of guitars, primed canvas, chords, acrylics. I want to create, but don't trust myself to produce something worth creating. Another sign of my endless self-doubt and lack of self-value, I suppose. 

Reality of impatient customers, sticky dishes, bottomless glasses, subservience. I run from table to table, trying to keep them all happy, but failing miserably. Is this what being an adult is? Never happy with where you are in life? Always wishing for something more? If it is, I want to run away from it all, escape to some far off place where I can pick apples in orchards or help bring in the day's catch in return for a place to sleep and a carafe of wine.