Tonight I went to a holiday party hosted by a fellow musician and his fiancé. In true party form, the friends of the fiancé—business professionals and family starters—congregated in the kitchen and the musicians retreated to a side room to slur their half-cocked explanations of the physics of string theory and friendly disputes over the best David Bowie song in the same sentence. After having my fill of one-sided conversations (as most, if not all, liquor-induced conversations become), I paid my respects and made the frigid drive home.

A cousin of mine had posted a blog that, at first glance, I honestly didn't think I'd get through in my 'about ready for bed' state. But it reeled me in, as his writing often does. He's survived a tumultuous youth to become a relatively well-adjusted human being. After reading it, it strikes me how many similarities there are between us. Not so much in the paths we're on or how we chose to live our lives but in the expressions of the tortured artist gene that, somehow, we've both been blessed and stricken with.

We've never been close. Growing up, I was a little prick to him as I was striving to find my place and he was just striving to find his place. I'm sure my mind has chosen far fonder memories to hang onto than his has, but I'd like to think there were at least a few worth smiling about. Like an apple fight at our grandparents' house. And how disappointed our parents and grandfather were that we'd littered the yard with our fruity ammo. And knowing—despite having to clean it all up in shame—how worth it it was.

I imagine that right now he's jotting down ideas for a story, as we've both done in one form or another whenever life gets just fucked up enough to let it flow. We both have some innate cruelty that was passed down from somewhere that dictates the relationship between chaos and creativity. We both recognize that, whether consciously or not, we seek out drama from time to time when things turn stale. We're aware of our few talents and our myriad of shortcomings.

In which lies the conundrum. Creative fulfillment doesn't pay the bills. Paying the bills lifts a weight but doesn't inherently provide anything truly worth working for. Love is sold as a commodity that completes a puzzle, but the pieces you need to bring to the table are sold separately. In short, things not being right induces innovation.

I've found my music. I could have pursued a legitimate career, but the pieces I need to bring to my own table would have always been missing. I happily pay my bills now only because it is a means to an end and the job is not my life. I know he's aware of what he gets out of his writing. Maybe school is on that path. Maybe school would stifle it. Whatever the route, it needs to involve him realizing that he's worth the fulfillment his writing provides and he's entitled to the chance to make that for himself.

Do I think everyone should quite their jobs and join a commune to sing songs and write stories? No. But I do think that our short time on this rock would be much more fulfilling—for all of us—if we stop ignoring the sense of worth we get from producing something that we put our heart into. A few of us come to terms with the fact that life is pretty grand when our main pursuit is turning shit into missing puzzle pieces.