You know what blows? Losing it in people you respect.

Been debating writing this for a while, wondering if I should bother at all: maybe its too mopey a subject, nobody cares about it, it won't change anything. It's thoughts such as those that stayed my fingers, but as I sit for another day, replaying the events in my head, I find myself unable to stop myself any longer. I'm tired of being the good, quiet guy about it.

Frankly, I'm owed. Have been for a long time.

I know callout journals aren't accepted here, thus names will not be named. I know artists struggle day in and day out to balance their craft with the demands of modern life, and I know well thst the creative process cannot be rushed. And yet, as I find myself once more reviewing transactions in my head and the staggering inequity between parties, I can't help but feel slighted.

After all, you were paid.

I know that life is tough, certainly personal circumstances can get in the way of any project. I know that its hard to run a business. And yet, I know that if this were any other industry, any other clientele base, that you'd have gone out of trade a long time ago.

Doesn't seem to matter. You were paid, and I'm left poorer for it.

I know social media can be hard in this day and age, and it's easy to get snowed in and inundated with post after post, status after status, that its easy for things to slip through the cracks. Messages go unread, emails unseen, DMs unchecked. But the fact od the matter is, when you can't take the time to even bother seeing to your customers, you should no longer be in business.

Doesn't matter though. After all, you got paid, and I can't so much as wring a singlr letter of acknowledgement from you.

I know life has its problems. Things come up, sometimes devastating. A polite society ahould be comprised of understanding and empathy, to pull togetherans help one another. When someone asks for help, that it be given. I listened when you talked, gave advice where I could. And yet I had to hold my tongue, even as I felt myself writhing with anger and a sense of betrayal, because it felt improper otherwise.

Doesn't matter. You were paid, and whilst I offered my ear to you, you offered me the silence of a cold shoulder.

I'm tired of being the understanding fool, waiting and hoping. I know there'a nothing I can do, that I can only be optimistic, but that has its limits and they have long since been surpassed. I know, after all, that artists don't deserve the drama levelled at them, but maybe consider the otherend of things.

After all, no matter the hardship before you: you got paid, and I'm left poorer for it. You gained money, I lost my trust in you.