The world said it was wrong, but it felt so right. Sometimes you obsess over the convincingly unattainable and profoundly illogical.

I’m sitting in the movie theater, watching Heath Ledger redefine acting. We’re watching a Batman movie, but I think the Joker is the main character here. How did Ledger end up there? He must have been in my seat at one point, struck by inspiration, idolizing someone so far off from himself. I paid $8.50 for this movie ticket, plus another $8 for the Icee and popcorn some teenager prepared for me—a small price to pay for inspiration. Decade-old me grew to obsess over artistry as eloquent as Ledger’s. But what was the cost of Ledger’s dreams? The real, monetary cost. Don’t you need a publicist or an agent to be a successful actor? I don’t have that kind of money.

I’m sitting in class with an earphone fed through my shirt so the teacher can’t see. My playlist shuffles between My Chemical Romance, Lana Del Rey, Andrea Bocelli, Eminem, and--everything in between. I wish I could do that, I thought. But what was the cost of their dreams? The real, monetary cost. Don’t you need a producer, sound engineer, and label to be a successful musician? Hell, don’t you need pure talent? I don’t have any of that.

I’m sitting at lunch while the kids stacking honors classes compare GPA’s. They followed the college advisor’s directions to the T, right down to the extra curricular’s and volunteer time. Go to college and pursue a promising degree. These outlandish dreams are unattainable and profoundly illogical—you’re competing in an overcrowded, competitive industry. I want to listen, I want to swim varsity, I want to pass my classes, I want a promising degree and a promising future. But still, I need art.