Misery and angst boiling my blood. I could't write, I couldn't think.
Who told us what we are good at?
Who told us what we are bad at?
Who told us we are what we are?
Talents, skills, limits, desires.
Like a resume of self, the attributes we've bought into, told ourselves, been told:
Good at details.
Struggles with big picture.
Bad at math.
The last year, every time I sit to journal, I find myself in a reverie. I wake a few moments later and trees, leaves, swirls, skeletons, birds, doodles of all sorts somehow appeared on my page. And I hear, "You don't draw." And I say, "Maybe I could learn." And I hear, "No. That's what Kelly (or enter any other person) does." And I say, "She doesn't own all the art. She would never want me to not do something for that reason." And I hear, "But it's her thing." And I say, "What if it's yours too?" And I hear, "I would have discovered it by now." And I say, "How could you discover it if you never do it."
Everything begins some
And I wonder if I've held myself back for so long because of one word: talent.
And what if talent is total bullshit?
What if it's only ever about practice? Even for the most talented.
They all started some
What if it could be the answer to every question?
Every nagging bitch inside of me could be shut up by
So I think I will. Maybe teach myself. Maybe just try with no pressure or expectation.Maybe just do what feels good without any reason at all.
I have a good role model. I can watch Bowie and see how she investigates without any self-definition to yet limit or guide her inquisition.
And maybe just start some
As a wise friend said this week, "I'm not going to wait for perfection to start living."