To Create or Not to Create; Angela

“My mom’s generation believed in the freedom of career; work hard and survive on your own, never ask help. My generation believed in the freedom of being yourself; don’t fake it, never compromise. My child will believe in the freedom of creative expression; try not to become successful, but of value, never hold up, always ask help, trust everyone.”
-A Facebook status of Angela; three months after the events you are about to read.


“Come back home Angela and get a real job!” -My mom, from WhatsApp.

I sink back to my anxieties, the loyal friend since the sweet sixteen. At the lovely hostel, the razor in my hand, the sight of the secret shame of my inner thighs holds my breath. My phone vibrates again over the laundry machine. I ignore it like a panic attack.

Your love hurts so much, mom. You told me I could be anything and so hard I tried to match everything I wanted to be. “Get a real job!”, did I fail? Am I a failure mom?

I wash off my anxiety foam. I am stronger now. I can carry the burden of my moms love wihtout hurting my self more. I can’t become the slave of her personal history; I have to create my own freedom, to become myself. But it would be so easy to give up. Going back home to mom and dad. Getting a real honest job.

I walk down the stairs to take a panic cigarette at the lounge balcony. But the hot weather outside chokes me. I can’t blow the anxious fumes away. It’s still there inside of me. My mothers voice. But it’s not only about my mother any more. My friends are entering the “get a real job” choir in my head. I put my earphones on, I listen to Vika’s Type O Negative cover of Wolf Moon, non-stop binch listening of the same song, the same key strokes (#play-it), the same melody, which adds a layer of realness to my mother dilemma (follow #vkgoeswild @youtube or support her #crowd-funding @pledgemusic, she is awesome!).

I try to sink deeper underneath Vika’s piano melodies. My friends do not like my music. My brother doesn’t really care about my music. The general public does not care. No one cares. I lit my lighter and watch the flame; it burns me like all the blame against my creation. Against me, being a creator. Or is it my own desire to be different that burns me? All this pain, for not getting a job just like everyone else?

Is my mom right about me? Am I socially immobile? Bound to my Marxist materialistic destiny, belonging to the labour force instead of the creative force? Honest working citizen. Anything, honest working.

As the shape arrived within my field of vision, the tear on my cheek pours to my attention. I let my pride hide my emotions and he asks a question, which is lost forever within the melody of Vika’s piano. I do a hair grooming gesture to wipe the tear; avoid breathing in through the nose; he would hear the stuffed sound, which would give away my sad mood. I let my pride hide my emotions.

As I drop my earphones from my ears, he asks “Are you okay?”.
“Sure”, I notice that he is the guy, who knows me from somewhere. Her girl friend was curiously interested about why we ended up to the same hostel. I do not even know his name and she seemed so jealous! People are so crazy! (he is Jackie, #read-his-side-of-the-moment or #read-his-day)
“Are you sure?”
“No, but it’s nothing you could help me with”, then I see a glimmer of wisdom in his eyes.
“Try me”

Then I did. I tried him, “Should I get a real job?” We start a conversation, I tell everything about my day, my life.

He is open. I like his life philosophies, and it turns out he has been a fan of mine; fan of the Less Worthless. Mom! He likes my music! He quit his job, because of my music! He tries to become himself, because of my music! This is my job! I create motivation for self actualization!

He made me realize that my true problem was money. There are two ways to achieve freedom of creation, increase your hourly rate or decrease your consumption.

Note from the Angela’s Brain: Sometimes it is painful to see how we only hear what our egos want to hear. The body of Angela has to go all the way to Nairobi, before she understands that the other thing what Jackie said, the thing about the Fraud Police, was her real problem. Not the lack of opportunities or money (Fraud Police is from #art-of-asking #buy-the-book #itsa-good-one).

But for some reason we require experiences to validate and familiarize with a new idea. That’s us, the human way. And the brain has to let the body suffer. No pain, no gain.

I try to find some bright sides or humor from it, but in reality, being somebodys brain is the worst customer service job that I know of!

[Note from the Author: Perhaps you liked what you read? I believe (#you-can-help-me) and if you want to help me finish this book sooner, go and (#like-this-post)!]