A Man of Value

I don't remember when I started playing the piano. For a long time, I thought I had started at six, but I recently found pictures of myself sitting at my parents' piano when I was one. Whatever the case, I've been playing piano for more than twenty-five years as of this writing. I play entirely by ear, having learned (and forgotten) how to read music on more than one occasion. Whatever particular cognitive aptitudes I have for functional analysis and dissimilation, be they the product of nature (natural inquisitiveness) or nurture (the back of my mother's hand if I played a wrong note), seem to lend themselves well to musical improvisation. Thus, I became something of a trick pony in my youth, playing whenever there was a party and a piano. This boosted my self esteem at first, but not for long. After awhile, I started to feel like a circus performer. But I loved playing, and I loved being the center of attention when I was doing something I felt confident that I could do, so I never complained. It was universally agreed upon that I was going to be a musician when I grew up, and I saw no reason to doubt this when people said so. It became clear to me, at some point, that music was how I was going to make my mark on the world, and when I had reached this conclusion my attitude toward music changed. I started writing "career songs," if you will. I taught myself to play the guitar and started experimenting with grunge; its DIY nature made it seem as though anyone could be a musician. My father contributed a great deal of support to all my efforts at building a music career. And yet, here I sit, 31 years old and unemployed. My YouTube channel, where I upload original folk songs and covers, has had ten-thousand views in three years. Rarely do I get more than fifty views on a song. I've worked with A&R companies before and been burned; one of them withdrew $500 from my bank account illegally and only paid it back when I sued them for fraud. I have not become a professional musician. I have not become a professional of any sort, and I'm starting to wonder now about whether or not it's time to give up on my dream. I worry about how I shall leave my mark if not through creative endeavors.

Pontificating on failure has led to some interesting insights. Chiefly, I wonder where it is that we get the idea that we must leave something indelible when we die. There is pressure to make something of yourself, to contribute to posterity in a lasting way, but where does this pressure come from? How many people do you honestly know personally who have built enduring legacies? The truth is that most of us leave little behind when we shuffle loose from the mortal coil than grief and funeral expenses. This sounds bad, I know. It sounds like oblivion. Y0u live, you die, you do some stuff in between that most people won't even remember. It may sound like I'm trying to rationalize giving up or to make excuses for why I've failed at being any kind of artist, but if you look at the number of people who have left the world a better place in comparison to the number of people who have lived and died and been utterly forgotten, I think you'll see that there really is a lesson to be learned here.

Be what you are, do the right thing, and don't worry about leaving an impression when you die. No matter how much renown you achieve posthumously, you'll never get to enjoy it. Be good to yourself and try to make a positive impact on the people you love while you're around to reap the rewards - lasting relationships and peace of mind. To quote Albert Einstein: "Try not to become a man of success but rather to become a man of value."