i don't know if this counts as a confession or if i'm just being dramatic because it's 2am and the house is so quiet i can hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen... but i think i might be a complete fraud. maybe everyone is and i just haven't caught on yet? i'm sitting here in my home office—if you can call a desk crammed into the corner of a bedroom an office—and the only thing on my screen is a white rectangle. just 1920 by 1080 pixels of absolutely nothing. i've been looking at it since ten. i should be working on the branding for that new organic cafe, the one that wants to look "authentic" and "handcrafted" but what they really want is just another minimalist serif font that looks like every other shop in this city. it's not a big deal but it feels like i'm choking on the air in here. i was out for drinks with the girls yesterday, sarah and becca and that whole group, and i catch myself doing this thing where i lean in and use words like *synergy* and *momentum* and tell them how much i LOVE the freedom of the freelance life. i told them the hustle is what keeps me young. i said it with a glass of pinot in my hand and a smile that felt like it was taped to my face. i think they believe me. they see the posts on my grid of my coffee next to my tablet and think i’m some kind of creative powerhouse. they don't see me sitting here in my oversized sweatshirt with the hole in the armpit just... existing. i’m fifty now. fifty. i should have a pension or a stable 401k or at least the ability to pick a color palette without wanting to scream. i don’t know. maybe i'm just ungrateful. the cursor. it just blinks. over and over. it’s actually kind of aggressive if you think about it. it’s like this tiny digital heart beat reminding me that i have absolutely nothing to say. i remember when i used to stay up late because i was so *effervescent* with ideas that i couldn't sleep. i’d sketch until my fingers were lead-black and my eyes were blurry and it felt... good? it felt like something. now it just feels like i’m a machine that’s run out of oil. i’m just grinding gears. clunking. i look at the work of these twenty-something kids on behance and it’s all so slick and effortless and i just feel... archaic. like a dinosaur trying to use a stylus. a very tired, very broke dinosaur. it’s the money too. or the lack of it. the feast and famine thing isn’t a fun "quirk" of the industry anymore, it’s just terrifying. i have seventeen dollars in my checking account right now because the client from three months ago still hasn't paid their invoice. i had to choose between the good cat food and the stuff that makes her barf. i chose the good stuff. i’m fifty and i’m choosing cat food over my own lunch. it’s pathetic, right? but then i go on slack and i’m all "great ideas! let's circle back on the typography!" and i use so many exclamation points i feel like a psychopath. i’m pretending so hard i think i might be disappearing. like i’m becoming translucent. things to do: - check the bank balance again (it won't change) - fix the kerning on the "artisan" logo - pretend i don't have a headache - find the motivation to care about a logo for a company that sells overpriced soap - stop crying? no, i'm not even crying. that's the weird part. i'm just... flat. i think maybe the joy just leaked out of me at some point. like a slow puncture in a tire. you don't notice it at first, you just keep driving and then one day you're on the rim and there's sparks flying everywhere and you're wondering when the steering got so heavy. i used to care about the *aesthetic* of things. i thought i was making the world more beautiful or some pretentious crap like that. now i’m just moving blocks of color around until someone gives me enough money to pay the electric bill. it’s just commerce. it’s all just selling stuff to people who don't need it. i’m a middleman for things that don't matter. i don’t even know what i’d do if i quit. i don’t have other skills. i’m a "creative." that’s my whole identity. if i’m not the artist friend, the one who’s "doing her own thing," then who am i? just a middle-aged woman staring at a wall. i feel like i’m stuck in this loop. i lie to my friends so they won't pity me, i lie to my clients so they won't fire me, and i lie to myself so i can get out of bed in the morning. i tell myself i’m just in a rut. a slump. but it’s been three years. that’s not a slump, that’s a canyon. the light outside is starting to turn that weird grainy gray color. morning is coming and i still haven't moved a single anchor point on this screen. my neck is stiff. my hands are cold. i should probably go to sleep but then i’ll just wake up and it’ll be the same rectangle waiting for me. it’s not a big deal, really. lots of people hate their jobs. i just didn't think i'd be one of them. i thought i was special or something. what a joke. i’m just going to sit here for ten more minutes. maybe the screen will tell me what to do. probably not. it’s just... white. empty. same as everything else. i guess i'll just try again tomorrow. or today. whatever. it doesn't really matter.