The creator imprisoned in the uniform

Dear Delyara, There is a deep, agonizing sorrow to walking these empty corporate corridors at 3:00 AM while managing the security parameters for a multinational company that views me as nothing more than a line item on an invoice. The harsh fluorescent lights cast cold, sterile shadows across the floor, and the only sound is the echo of my boots in the dark. As I monitor the perimeters, my mind is screaming to work on my own creative architecture—my writing, my design lines, my jewelry concepts. I am spending twelve hours a night guarding millions of pounds of wealth for others, while my own independent ventures are forced to survive on the absolute scraps of my energy at dawn. I have to hold on, Delyara. I cannot let the guardian permanently suffocate the artist inside.