uhhhhhh

I am scared of failing. 

Perhaps if I fail though, then it truly would be for naught

My life would sputter out

Click below it said and I clicked above because I saw the light flash above my eyes

And I clicked above because the light was above as it should always be

And so my eyes danced a bit and I started to sing 

Some song I don’t remember

But each of those clicks I saw above those lights that danced across the sky perhaps

It seemingly dissipates into something different

Something, as if the stories I am meant to tell are truly the light

Inspiration strikes and I end up in a dive towards my keyboard to write

Or a notebook to jot ideas down

Or my notes app, to spare a sentence or two of my next grand idea that never is as grand as I wished it would be

Its as if there is nothing too grand about what I create

And that’s the point i think

I can’t see what is grand about something I’ve created 

Even God did not wallow in his mastery until the last day.

Even as he created it, it was simply, “so.” 

It wasn’t finished until the end, it was just. There. 

As my writing seemingly never finishes, so to should creation never cease to create itself over and over and over and over

Stories are meant to be read and read and read and so I read and read and read

I loved reading

I read early, and often.

As I grew I read less often but more thoroughly

Prancing myself through doctoral thesis’s of random accord as if I was gaining the hidden knowledge of the world

It fed my ego and my mind to say I was so smart and different to be reading such difficult material

But in reality I was scared of failing myself

See I’ve always been told I could create something incredible

That I was a good enough writer to sell novels for decades to come

And that still could be the case

But there's something truly false about the entire thing

Something false about that idea

That I am so incredible to write something so masterful

Because I am not

I am a fraud

As all writers are

And yet

I’m still here

Writing away.

Typing away.

Because I see something to  be made here.

I see something that

Hm.

These pictures taken at my graduation party mean something

Because they are interesting

Wholly and entirely interesting

Perhaps for a moment there is something to be said about art 

About art for my soul

And our soul

And the soul of people I love

Because those are the people who I must create for

Who I do create for

Because they spilled into me in the manner I must spill back out

So these photos that line a scrapbook a friend bought for me a few months ago, littered with polaroids of friends and family, siblings and parents

So thematic because of the dream

That this place, this little photo opp would be so interesting

Because it was to me

And to them

Because it was fun

And creative

And powerful in the sense that it brought joy to people

Or

At least to me

To see some of my books line a shelf.

To see some of my photos and pieces of art ive collected spackled upon the frames outside

Chairs that were yellow, director style on the ground where some people could sit

And newspaper headlines with boisterous and interesting graphics

Those I saw and knew

THAT

That is interesting

Let's do something with it.

There's something to be said about just creating

And even if this means nothing to anyone other than me

It broke a bit of something 

A wall I had up

Because I was scared

Frightened

Of never creating something that mattered

But truly

None of it does

If no one cares

But 

I care.

And I know for a fact, my family. And my friends. And especially my girlfriend, they care quite a lot about what I create

So maybe that’s all I needed to break out of this little slump I’ve been having. 

I needed something. Well. 

I just needed a bit of perspective. A bit of fresh, clear, well seasoned perspective. - anton ego.