I think maybe I’m just tired, but it’s 2am and the rain is hitting the window in that specific, rhythmic way that makes me want to scream. I’m sitting here on my floor with this stupid glossy travel brochure for a painting residency in Crete that I found tucked inside an old sketchbook. I don't even know why I still have it. It’s for real artists. People who actually make things. Not people like me who spend forty hours a week—plus "on-call" weekends—debugging legacy code for a logistics company. I keep staring at the blue of the Aegean sea on the page and then looking at the grey, oily slush on the street outside my apartment and I feel this... this burning in my chest. I think it’s anger. I’m actually really, really ANGRY right now and I don't have anywhere to put it. I don't know if this counts as a confession, but I think I hate my hands. They used to be covered in charcoal and linseed oil, and now they just feel like... I don't know, extensions of a mechanical keyboard. My dad told me when I was nineteen that I had "too much sense" to be a starving artist. He said it like it was a compliment, like he was saving me from some horrible fate. I think maybe I hate him for that? No, I definitely do. I listened to him because I was a coward. I was so scared of being poor, of having my heat turned off like my aunt did back in the 90s, so I took the scholarship for Computer Science. I followed the rules. I did the "smart" thing. And now I have the salary and the "luxury" apartment with the floor-to-ceiling windows and I have NEVER been more miserable in my entire life. Every morning I walk into the office and it’s just... beige. Even the "creative" pods are beige. I sit there and I write logic that helps shipping containers move through a port five minutes faster. That’s my contribution. That’s what I’m doing with my life. I had a meeting today with my lead, Sarah, and she was talking about "optimizing the delivery pipeline" and I just sat there staring at the vein in her neck. I was thinking about how I would mix the paint to get that exact shade of pale, bruised blue for the shadows under her jaw, but I didn't say anything. I just nodded and said "makes sense" like a robot. I feel like I'm wearing a mask that's slowly fusing to my face and I can't breathe underneath it. My girlfriend, Chloe, thinks I’m just "stressed" because of the new sprint cycle. She bought me this expensive weighted blanket last week. A weighted BLANKET. Like some heavy fabric is going to fix the fact that I feel like I’ve murdered the person I was actually supposed to be. We went out to dinner with her friends from her firm on Friday and they were all talking about their designs, their inspirations, the way they want people to *feel* when they walk through a space... and I just sat there. I couldn't even join in. I felt so small and bitter. I just kept thinking about that brochure and the smell of salt air. I think I’m starting to resent her for actually liking her life. How horrible is that? I’m turning into a person I don't even recognize. I remember this one night in my second year of college. It was raining then, too. I was in the studio until 3am, working on this massive canvas—it was all deep ochres and these violent, muddy purples—and I felt... I felt like I was actually existing. My professor came by the next morning and told me I had a "vicious talent." Those were his exact words. Vicious. And what did I do with it? I went home and studied for my Java midterm because I was terrified of failing. I let the paint dry on the brushes. I never finished that piece. I think about that unfinished canvas all the time. It’s probably in a dumpster somewhere, or buried under a pile of trash. I’m the one who put it there. I chose the cubicle. I’m looking at this brochure and I want to rip it into a thousand pieces but I also want to... I don't know, eat it. I want that color inside me. My heart is beating so fast right now and my throat feels so tight I can barely swallow. I keep thinking about what would happen if I just didn't go in tomorrow. If I just took my savings and bought a one-way ticket to anywhere where the sky isn't the color of wet concrete. But I won't. I know I won't. I’ll go to sleep, I’ll wake up at 7:30, I’ll drink my "artisanal" coffee, and I’ll drive to the office in the rain. I am so incredibly ANGRY at myself for being this person. For being so goddamn practical while I’m literally dying of boredom and regret. I don't even know why I’m typing this out. I guess I just needed to say it to someone who isn't going to tell me to "take a vacation" or "try a new hobby." I don't want a hobby. I want my soul back. I look at my bank account and I see the numbers and they don't mean anything. They're just points in a game I never wanted to play. I'm 26 and I feel like I'm already a ghost. I just want to go back and tell that nineteen-year-old kid to run. To just run and not look back at the safety net. But he didn't. He stayed. And now I’m stuck here in the dark with a piece of paper and a headache and the sound of the rain hitting the glass. It’s never going to stop raining. I think I’ve just... I've missed it. The life I was supposed to have is gone and I'm just the guy who fixes the shipping code. I hate it. I hate everything about it.