I never thought it’d get to that point, but it’d been weeks since I’d left my job in a fit of pique, and still no employment was anywhere to be found. I’d burned through my savings surprisingly quickly and, although I wasn’t destitute yet, I could see it looming over the horizon. Times, if not yet desperate, were rapidly approaching desperation.
So when the offer came to sell off my creativity, I didn’t immediately reject it out of hand.
After all, hearing out an offer costs me nothing, right?
It was explained that they wouldn’t take ALL my creativity, I’d be left with just enough to function. They had no interest, after all, in basic decision making, as nearly everyone is capable of that. However, there’s a mid-sized to large market of wealthy patrons interested in creating art in their abundance of leisure time, but who had no aptitude for any artistic pursuit. It was this creativity they were interested in purchasing from me.
I was sceptical, nonetheless. I mean, my creativity was a sizable portion of my identity. What would I be without it? Would I still be me? Or, if you’re of the mindset that the ability to create art is what separates us from baser animals, would I even be human?
I spent a number of sleepless nights after that first meeting, trying to puzzle the matter out. In the end, I decided against it. No matter how broke I became, no amount of money could convince me to part with a part of myself I held so dear, and I’d tell them so at the second meeting.
At the second meeting, they explained the exact amount of money that they were offering.
It was astronomical.
I’d never valued material possessions much, but I realized this was a fortune, enough money that I could do anything I wanted with my life, or, if I so chose, enough that I could do nothing at all. Not only would my continued unemployment not be a problem, but I’d never have to go to work at a day job I hated again.
So, dollar signs in my eyes, I signed the contract and we made an appointment for the procedure.
I don’t know how exactly the procedure worked, I was under sedation the whole time. But I’m told that it was successful, and that I shouldn’t worry about side effects, so I don’t worry about side effects. The cheque cleared, and after considering my options I moved to an island in the Caribbean.
I bought a gigantic house on the beach, because I’d seen wealthy people living in such places on television, I hired someone to decorate it for me, and two weeks later I moved in, ready to enjoy my wealth.
Shortly after I arrived, I threw out my books and DVDs and I deleted my collection of music. Shouldn’t have bothered packing them in the first place, I suppose. I still remember the joy they brought me once, but I can’t precisely recall how or why I enjoyed them. They just seem like a waste of time. I bought a Jetski. I Jetski now, it’s really fun.
Occasionally I travel home to visit my old haunts and spend time with my old friends from the theatre, keeping up with old friends is a thing that people do, so I do it. But when I do the conversation is always awkward, stilted, as though we were from two different worlds, incapable of understanding one another.
Which, in a way, I suppose is the case.
I find myself going back there less and less often. I have plenty of time, and I can afford it, but still…
It’s a shame, but people grow apart all the time, I try not to let it bother me.
Overall, I think I lead a satisfying life. I enjoy my Jetski, I enjoy wandering the beach at sunset, I like my big house, I like going into the little town nearby and chatting with the locals. I hike and I cycle, I’m in better physical condition than I’ve ever been. I like me, I like what I spend my time doing.
I’ve lost a lot, to be sure, and there’s a lot of parts of my old life that are meaningless to me now, but since they’re meaningless I can’t really bring myself to miss them.
Which is strange.
Because I’d thought I’d miss my creativity terribly once it was gone, but now I can’t for the life of me imagine what I’d do with it if I had it still…