When I was younger, I hoped I would grow up to be someone worth talking about.  Someone whose work reached hundreds of people. Maybe an academic whose writing sparked long discussions. Or maybe one of those amazing teachers who showed compassion in moments where there was none. 

Now, I’m in my 20s and became none of these things. My name holds no weight and is about as useful as dead currency. Some might say I’m a nihilist now. The type of person who spends their life reciting: why try? Expecting the worst and finding life unappealing once it gets too hard. 

Long before this time though, I called myself an artist. I spent my days taking photos of small moments, fascinated by the body,  intimacy, and pain. I even did two art shows.  Reached a small amount of people. The arts don’t pay, someone would eventually say to me and I found this to be true. The photos stopped soon after. 

There was another time where I tried calling myself a writer. Makes you think, my friends would say after reading my work. And isn’t that what good writing does? Makes you think. Maybe this is the life I want, I thought.  One filled with language, sounds, and stories.  And so I put my work out into the world,  submitted it to multiple magazines and publications. I never did quite make it though. My inbox became a long list of rejections, of small graveyards where attempts were made. 

Eventually, life goes on. Going on borrowed time and borrowed money.  Everything becoming a placeholder for something else. Then one day, a fast-food  worker asks, “how are you doing today?” And  I respond with, “well, I could be better.” And  the worker reads back my order, “two cheeseburgers with grilled onions.” Not  knowing what to expect anymore, I say, “yes.” As they hand me the burgers that I’m delivering, I think about the work I do, the tasks I complete, and the recognition I lack.  And I think that people might be right in calling me a nihilist. I might have been a  person with desires long ago. Now, I live aimlessly, without many purposes. 

And life keeps going and going, and before I know it, my peers start having kids.  My acquaintances start graduate school. My friends start new and better jobs. And I wonder if this says anything about me and my uneventful life. This contrast makes me wonder if I’m not doing enough or if I’ve grown too comfortable. 

“Everyone moves at their own pace,” these peers, acquaintances, and friends say to me. But even if it is true, my pace feels like it’s taken a break. And is that really so bad? A life without big news, big accomplishments, big victories. Simply waking up and living yet another uneventful day. Greeting the same sun.  The same moon. The same stars. The world changes so much and so quickly and I stay the same. And maybe that’s the charm in all this,  being able to stay the same in a world where everything changes.

About the Author

Scotty Escobar (They / Them) is a writer and artist based in Santa Ana, California. Having published and exhibited over the years, Scotty's work is most known for its brief yet heavy nature. Themes pertaining to grief and defeatism are regularly explored and examined throughout these projects. You can follow them in Instagram at sadsincethe90s and reach out through Paypal at escobar.scotty@gmail.com (paypal.me/SalemDays).