She lives in a closet and he lives in a small bedroom. Our rooms are filled with clutter. Any normal person that walks into them assumes that we live a poor life. Life is full of struggle. When I look at our room, I see Artists.
Cardboard boxes stacked up to the ceiling. He stare at the pile and wonder what could be going wrong? You think about your struggles and wonder when will you catch your break?
She lays in her bed that carries the weak of her grief. Hope and dreams float around her bedroom. Yet, she feels stuck. Take the hopes and dreams away if they are not meant to be hers.
Is this what it means to be a struggling artist?
What is their story?
It is only the beginning.