Success.

I haven’t, as of yet, been successful. I don’t even know what I mean by that. What is success? Is it obvious? Maybe it is having a bestseller, or selling out a tour, or being considered great. Even having an agent. If it is this, then I have not succeeded.

Maybe it is also being in love, or having kids, getting married, owning a house. And if it is this, then I have not succeeded either.

But if success is trying, trying, failing, failing, failing, having so many days where it feels like I did nothing worthwhile, being so caught in the fizzy drink of my mind that my hair falls out, then maybe I have had some success.

I read recently that if you have to tear muscle to grow it, why would the mind or spirit be any different? My mind is torn, ripped to its foundations, like paper ripped so methodically that you cannot read what was once written on it. Shredded paper mind.

And if this is what success is, I have been successful. At the sacrificial altar of everything else, I have succeeded in this.