There was a pub one artery and two veins from the square that sheltered probably who I'd consider the most miserable soul I've known.

He arrived that watering hole around the same time I would: the start of happy hour before the crowd ruffled through. It was my favorite time to snag a

beer

while returning home after work. I'd never stay longer than two, sometimes maybe three beers, but I knew this artist stayed there longer. I knew this because he would tell me about his evenings and they would include moments had at the pub long after my leave.

What made him miserable was that he could never actually create. Still nobody who knew him seemed to bring up the point that I thought was obvious to me. If an artist doesn't create are they an artist at all? One time I had drunk three 

pilsners

in a short amount of time and my tongue almost said it. But at the final moment I thought, "I'm not an artist, what do I know?"

He was decently respected and even sometimes admired by the other artists who frequented that pub. I never could understand why but I do have to admit he did prove to be a fun person to talk to. I probably went to that bar more for him than anything else. But though he was a good conversationalist I could never understand why he was always so depressed. I also couldn't understand why he was so fixated on creating things. On being an artist.

These days, sitting by the fire, sipping a

rooibos

tea, in my armchair across the ocean I'm convinced that those two inclinations were one in the same. The fixation and passion was the depression. The depression was the fixation.