We were lying in bed, lights off, with the city humming outside. That kind of silence where conversation naturally goes deeper without trying.
“You know what’s the hardest part about being an artist?” he said.
I turned, half-asleep. “What?”
“You have to discipline your hand, your mind, and your heart. All three. At the same time.”
I didn’t say anything. He kept going.
“You have to control your emotions, your impulses, even how people respond to your work. You end up trying to manage things that aren’t yours to manage.”
“Like other people’s reactions.”
“Exactly,” he said. “You end up trying to control what can’t be controlled.”
We lay there quietly for a moment.
“I think that’s where real freedom comes from,” he said. “When you learn to control all three.”
I smiled in the dark. “You’re still working on that trio, huh?”
He let out a small laugh. “Yeah. My mind is the hardest part. I can start anything. I can play for hours. But I never finish. I get bored. Or I start doubting everything.”
I shifted on the pillow. “That’s never been my problem.”
“No?”
“No. I always finish. That’s how I learned.”
He turned toward me. “How?”
“I didn’t have the option not to. Where I grew up, not finishing meant going without. You want to eat? You make something. You want to be seen? You show up. You want to survive? You finish. There was no room for ‘maybe later.’”
He stayed quiet.
“I never waited for inspiration,” I said. “I didn’t have that luxury. I worked. I sold. I created something from nothing, and then I did it again. Because I had to. Because no one was going to do it for me.”
“That kind of pressure… it’s intense.”
“It is,” I said. “It lives in your body. It doesn’t just leave because life gets easier later. I still feel it—like if I don’t keep moving, something’s going to fall apart.”
He nodded slowly. “Sometimes I wish I had that.”
“You don’t want the pressure. But you do want the discipline.”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” I said, “you don’t need fear to teach your brain how to finish. You just have to train it. Give it a reason. Set a goal. Not to be perfect—just to be done.”
He thought about it.
“I’ll try,” he said.
“I know,” I told him. “And look—just because I finish doesn’t mean it’s always healthy. I’m trying to change my method, to make the path less harsh. You’re learning how to get to the end. We’re just standing at opposite sides.”
We went quiet again. Same bed, same city, two artists trying to figure it out.
He, learning how to finish what he starts.
Me, learning how to rest.