But neither for the praise or worship.
What I wanted was ease, a state in which laziness could be mistaken for introspection, where a lack of output created mystery, not contentment. I see it today because I realize what I was missing all this time.
The honing of my craft is not something I do on purpose.
The product of creativity is not attention, it's expression.
Mastery is not something I deserve, it's something I develop.
I write them down as mantras because Instagram has me forgetting too often that art is its own reward. I'm no content creator. I offer no value to you. I do my own shit because it heals me. I write because there are some things that I have to get out of my head and my therapist is composed of 26 letters. I can't afford to do it any other way. And, in a sense, there is no other way it could be done.
It's hard to write every day. To be honest, it was harder to even start considering writing as a routine. What I feared most was that in failing to write on one day or by skipping it altogether another, the only logical conclusion would be that if I couldn't stick to my passion, there would literally be nothing I'd be able to do with assiduity or that writing wasn't even a passion at all. I feared that by forcing myself to write, I'd start to consider it as a task and end up resenting it. Truth is, I resented the effort. I wanted the tag of writer without the the labour of finding a topic that would be interesting enough to write about.
I wanted the 6-pack without the pain of training.
Now, that I'm in it, I'd like to say something to the version of me that feared even trying.
You were judging people that were more successful than you. They had more money. They had a better pull on social media. They faked their way to success. You said they didn't deserve what they had, fully knowing that deep down, you feared that one day I would replace you. You feared one day you'd be forced to come to grasp with reality and that by allowing me the space to exist, you would be worse than gone, you'd be considered a waste; a shadow of bitterness and cowardice. Let me tell you something : You were right.
I'm here now. I'm eating the salad you were too lazy to prepare. I'm working out at the time of day you were sleeping in. I'm writing here in this studio, sipping on this dark chocolate almond milk instead of being "busy" watching videos on YouTube.
Don't worry, though. I'll take care of us. I love myself enough for the both of us.