If you can't make a living doing the thing you love, you've got to trade in your time and intelligence doing something else. That's just how it is. But Lord do I resent it sometimes, coming home from work like the human equivalent of a burnt match, no light left and certainly no hope of writing a decent poem. Suppose Buddha was wrong and this is the only life you get. Are we using our brief time here on Earth with due acknowledgement of its brevity?