Gary brings me a hard-boiled egg.
He says, “What are you doing today?”
I say, “I don’t know. Probably working in the garden.”
He disapproves. I know this because he disapproves every day.
“You don’t really have a migraine, do you?” he asks.
“The rest helped,” I lie.
Even though lying isn’t allowed, we all do it.
Even though conforming isn’t allowed, asking us all not to lie is conforming.
It’s no different, even though it was supposed to be different.
None of us are leaders.
None are followers.
Essentially, we are rotting.
“Why aren’t you composing?” Gary asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Still sore about what I said last time I asked?” he says.
Gary and I fight over this all the time. I tell him my music is nothing without listeners. He tells me I’m being greedy because I only want to make money from the music’s listeners. I say something like “Is that so bad?” and then he shakes his head as if I’m some leech on the world.
What good is it doing here?
He says the joy is the creation.
He says sharing it will sully it.
I say sharing is the whole point.
He calls me a child—because he’s fifty-two and I’m forty-three. He calls me a child for wanting to share talent. Isn’t that what you do with talent?
Isn’t that what you do?