some nights, when I’m perched on a stool with just my guitar, keeping a little crowd fixed (or at least I hope), it hits me:
the only time I don’t feel like such a fuck up is when I’m making music. or playing it for people who care.
choosing to be an artist is really different from being a painter. they are two different pursuits. the second may turn out dozens of exact replicas of unique works of art for a cost and for people that, like, want a copy of the Mona Lisa hanging in their living room.
when you choose to play to people who just want some background noise, or only want to hear you cover someone else’s stuff, or you decide to play bat mitzvahs and weddings, you’ve signed up for something. if what you care most about is the transaction — money or feedback — then you’ve made a trade.
it’s easy to tell who the other people are, my people. they’re the ones who show up to feel some emotional shift. they’re the ones who lean in to listen for something different. they’re the ones who want to be pushed a little closer to the edge. they’re also the ones who pull me back from my personal void.
they close their eyes, I close mine, and we all drift off somewhere.
cookie nieves 
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