More and more, I find my body coiling into itself with the tension of a wound-up spring.
You can say it’s the months I’ve voluntarily subjected myself to partial isolation, the weight of it waiting to barrel out my chest, or the growing pressure of the future with a capital F—this need to situate ourselves beside, behind, and in the proximity of the common parlance constituting the definition for success. Even just the slight chances of it.
The consensus being creative endeavor is for the perpetually hungry, people who dream unreal dreams and therefore cannot be categorized as a ‘proper’ career path. Whatever that means.
Recently, I got myself a new computer with a decent-sized monitor. When writing used to be a private act in the confines of a tiny laptop screen, now it screams and begs for attention the way unfinished houses do—absurdly proud in its stature and with an ugliness still.
Creative endeavor is for the perpetually hungry, people who dream unreal dreams.
Now I feel a greater need to cover up, to cut myself off from prying eyes. Any eyes, for that matter. I feel a greater need to address the vulnerability of being seen without the armor of editing and styling, to be seen the way unfinished houses are—absurdly proud in their naked stature and with an ugliness still.
My dad, who I am convinced has taken it as his amusement to interrupt me, only grows bolder in his attempt day by day. Thanks a lot, dad.
You know that saying, “When you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail?” A creator’s fear for their craft is a fear for themselves. Every interruption is a finger-wagging event under the watchful eye of a king who specializes in scrutiny—awaiting your moment of weakness. His majesty’s royal decree: Let ye be shipped off the island of people who Just Didn’t Make The Cut.
“A certain type of perfection can only be realized through a limitless accumulation of the imperfect.”
But that’s not true, is it? Murakami once wrote, “A certain type of perfection can only be realized through a limitless accumulation of the imperfect.”
We are in this fast river together—we: me, you, and everyone you love and everyone they love. We are paddling towards a worthwhile pursuit. Perhaps, some semblance of it. I don’t want to reach that place without seeing your face age through the years, each of us a mirror of the other’s life.
I don’t want to reach that place without seeing your face age through the years, each of us a mirror of the other’s life.
I welcome this odd flavor of interruption, this interruption done out of love and mercy for the relentless capital F future pulling us along.
