Feeling Like You Ain’t Shit when "The" is Enough.
I’m thinking of getting another tattoo but I won’t tell you about it. It’s private. Personal. Close to the chest I keep it for fear of my idea being stolen but moreso that it’ll be ridiculed. You can’t see it until it’s done, and even then... wait a minute. Oh, the mind games we creatives play on ourselves. The okie-doke we fall for when our reflections and voices aren’t enough. The books stay unwritten. The music remains under wraps. The chairs left in pieces. Honestly, we feel like all you have to offer is shit. That someone will clue in to that undiagnosed Imposter Syndrome and send us on our merry way. And we freeze for what feels like forever — throwing away all our time and work.
Months later.
Hours later.
Minutes even.
You look up and think: what’s it all worth? Who will read this? Who will like this? Will the evoked emotions change mindsets? The mirror cracks. The reflection steps forward and you think…fuck this. You’ve spent way too much energy second guessing. Too many nights tossing over designs to let them drift without even a pen stroke. Something begins to burn inside. Perhaps it’s anger. Anger at yourself. Leftover resentment towards that cousin who obnoxiously called all your dreams stupid. Maybe it’s frustration. Anticipation. Something that shifts into determination. Dead is the fear, anxiety, the notion that the world can live without the goodness overflowing your memory cards. They will hear you. Who you are is needed. What you have is important. You never imagined it all could change this quickly. As you pick up your camera, sledgehammer, pencil, that weapon of mass artistic conception again, you realize even for a moment that for all intents and purposes, you are the shit. In a realm full of people airing out their beauty and workmanship, yours matters.
Play up your dopeness. Your shit is the shit.
