The Confession Of A Banker

I want to paint, but I’m a banker. Painting is for painter, not banker. Banker, banker, banker, I’m a banker, and a banker doesn’t paint!

Every weekday, I go to my boring office, talk with boring people, and shuffle boring papers around. Nine-to-five, nine-to-five: that’s my life. I always watch painting videos on my lunch break, but, alas, I always have cut it short because I have to get back to work. There’s a canvas sitting silently in the corner of my living room—with few brushes beside it. It has been sitting there for nineteen years. Nineteen years! When I sleep, my dreams are often filled with the imagination of me painting on that canvas—painting freely, like a painter—but outside my dream, my hands feel handcuffed when I try to paint. In fact, that canvas has collected more dust than paint. I can’t, I can’t, I simply can’t paint. After all, I’m a banker, not a painter, and a banker doesn’t paint.