“You’re doing an awful lot for other people. I want to make sure you’re getting something out of it. The last thing I want to do is see you burn out,” I say.
“The same for you,” she says.
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” I reply. “I don’t count. I’m not a person.”
I realize that if I’m having such a hard time defining something — what an artist is, what art is — then maybe I shouldn’t worry myself too much about whether it applies to me. It’s freeing.
I got excited by what you said. I started typing. And continued typing. Twelve messages later, I’m staring at the screen full of regret.
We’ve been close for a very long time. First we were friends — wonderful friends. We were mutual confidants, always talking about what was going
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