And there I was, thirty-two years old, at a yoga retreat,desperatly trying to find myself, and realizing that everything I'd been doing in my life, artistically, could be summed up like this:
PLEASE BELIEVE ME. I'M REAL. NO REALLY, IT HAPPENED. IT HURT.
(...)
I laughed thinking about working in strip clubs during that same period, gyrating to Nick Cave and staring into the eyes of lonely, drunken strangers, challenging them to look into my soul instead of my crotch:
PLEASE. BELIEVE ME. I'M REAL.
(...)
I laughed thinking about every single artist I knew - every writer, every actor, every filmmaker, every crazed motherfucker who had decided to forgo a life of predictable income, upward mobility, and simple tax returns, and instead pursued a life in which they made their living trying to somehow turn their dot-connecting brains inside out and show the results to the world - and how, maybe, it all boiled down to one thing:
BELIEVE ME.
Believe me.
«I'm real.»
em The Art of Asking, de Amanda Palmer
