Long time no see! (Wokka wokka… Ugh, what a way to begin. Let me break things down for a minute.)
(Where have you been?) In response to that little voice in my head that masquerades as my conscience, I could say I’ve been occupied with schoolwork and my job (which is true), I could say that I’ve been out enjoying the seasonable French spring weather (also true), and I could say that I feel guilty for neglecting the keyboard all this time. This blog is meant to be my canvas, my own personal workspace to express myself and add my tiny droplet of a voice to the ocean of chaos in the vastness of cyberspace.
But that little voice in my head knows those excuses are complete bullshit.
No, there’s a voice that keeps me away from this space, which should be consecrated to ME and MY thoughts, a place where I can be as selfish or selfless as I please, where I should feel free to mold my thoughts into little pieces I can be proud of. My little blog entries that I can bottle up and send out into the ocean, perhaps never to be found or read, but that made me happy just to write them out.
That voice that I think we can all relate to. The voice that tells us that we’re not good enough, we’ve never been good enough, we never will be good enough. The voice that tells me it’s in my own best interest not to write, not to be myself, not to speak, because then I’ll be exposed, left open and defenseless against the barrage of negativity that I’m convinced is around the corner. “If people found out who I “really” was, they wouldn’t want anything to do with me.”
Sometimes, it’s easier to pull away and hide from that big, bad world. I’ve got enough on my plate already, why try to practice an art and put my feeble attempts online, where there are endless hordes of sharks out there, ready to rip me apart?
The scary thing about practicing an art is that you never know if it’s good enough. There is no prescribed path, no sure-fire way to improve except to do it: to try, to fail, to learn, to try again, and continue as such until the end of the road. At least, that’s what I’ve heard from artists I admire and respect.
But every day that I don’t write, I feel like I’ve lost something irreplaceable. My fingers itch and little ideas float down into my brain, but still I prefer to rest invisible. Because over the course of much of my life, I’ve learned that to be invisible is to be safe. But I’ve grown more and more discontent with being invisible. It doesn’t have to be this false dichotomy between being invisible or expressing myself and being a disappointment, and therefore destined for rejection. For many of my almost-29 years on this planet, I’ve been caught up in the black-and-white, the this-or-that, the good-or-bad. Since I’ve come to France, I’ve become more interested in the rainbow of colors in between.
Will this post spur me into action? Perhaps not. I’ll leave this up here for my own future reference, at the very least.