He went to Harvard undergrad, graduated Magna Cum Laude. Then went to HBS (Harvard Business School).
On the fast track to make millions in business…
So talented, could write his own ticket, in almost anything. Knowing this was enough.
Plus… He always had a dream to be an artist…
So he did.
Finally free, yes.
But, unfortunately, nothing is free. Kids are not free. Marriage is not free. Living in New York is not free.
Conflicted.
I’m an artist (but I should’ve made money).
Screw the money. I’m too talented for that… And… I don’t need anyone.
Divorce.
Internal conflict causes a lack of focus… Can screw up your future.
For good.
No internal conflict? You’re probably dead.
Too much internal conflict, you’ll end up an alcoholic, or worse, and wish you were dead.
Grow up.
And accept the pain of responsibility.
Who among us has not dreamt, in moments of ambition, of the miracle of a poetic prose, musical without rhythm and rhyme, supple and staccato enough to adapt to the lyrical stirrings of the soul, the undulations of dreams, and sudden leaps of consciousness. This obsessive idea is above all a child of giant cities, of the intersecting of their myriad relations.
Charles Baudelaire — Dedication of Le Spleen de Paris