Artist re artist

You almost have to be full of yourself to be an artist, right? As in

I'm special.
I have something important to say.
The world needs my _____.
I owe it to the universe to live out my (stellar) trajectory.

Once you get enlightend about your status as just one of the gang, do you give up or hunker down? This is all pseudo art, after all. Real art is real life, however you live it. Charles Kuralt ambles by (he's dead of course -- artists are not immortal, dear) to ask about the scooner you're building in your parched yard or the bicycles you fix for neighbor kids who can't afford bikes, let alone repairs. You'll be humanly interesting for a minute, inspire somebody to get off the couch and weed the potatoes, but you won't see yourself Rolling-Stone blow-dry-air-brushed anytime soon.

Which leaves you with this. When the magnificent artist brain fits back inside the cranium, you start to see straight again. The bones that broke under your spectacular youness get strong and dear and appreciative of stuff like bird conjugations and orange rinds.