I’ve stopped writing for much longer than I ever wanted to.
Looking back at the attempts at poetry and prose I shared on my various blog, I never felt proud of my work. I don’t think I’ve written anything yet that’s struck a powerful chord with me. Yet, when I go back and look at the posts from a few years ago, I feel at peace for having caught some moments, some images of my mind, and carried them with me into the future. And, more than anything, I wish I were able to carry with me more memories adorned with language and preserved in a common place where they cease to belong to just me.
Perfectionism is evil. It’s the enemy that kills creativity, contentment, and progress under the false promise of attainable flawlessness. But in striving for perfect, we never take the step that makes the next one even possible. Instead, we hold on to a painfully high bar, waiting for everything to be just right so we can let go, not knowing that release is a choice and not a reaction. In believing in perfect, we accept that it is defined by an entity outside ourselves, that our own ideas of beauty, success, and happiness are meaningless and worth less.
I’m tired of holding back myself and my creative pursuits for fear that my work is not great. Today, I am not great, but I will take better. Such is the path of growth.