Talented but melancholic men...



I have a lot of tattoos. This is the one that people ask me about the most. It’s a square with letters in.


“What’s that? A crossword?” they say.


“Not exactly. It’s initials of some famous people.”


“Oh that’s clever, who are they?”


“Well there’s Hitler, Pol Pot, Genghis Khan, Margaret Thatcher, Robbie Williams. A few others. It’s a roll call of gits.”


Then they normally walk away.


The truth is that the tattoo is an homage to miserable people, my heroes.


To dead writers, alcoholic musicians, the wild bunch. Talented but melancholic men.


You see at the time I was a melancholic man and I hoped that I was talented. Perhaps talented enough so that one day, when I grew up I too could die alone and depressed, living in my mother's garage at the age of 34, drinking myself blind on a diet of pain killers and crunchy nut cornflakes.


It almost happened.


The dying part. Not the talent.


For years I thought that I had to suffer to make art. So I suffered. Yet I made nothing good.


Most of these men are no longer my heroes. I still love them but I don’t want to be them.


I want to be me.

They are dead. Gone too soon. I am alive. And I no longer suffer for my art.


My art is the sweet fix I’d always looked for.


written by scott


uk

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