It will be okay. If I don’t make this one post, it will be okay. If I don’t work on my game today, it will be okay. I have to keep reminding myself. I have to keep telling myself over and over that it’s okay if I slip a little bit, because I can do better next time, and better the time after that, and maybe sometimes I’ll do worse too but, on average, I’ll do okay.
It’s like a workout: I have to do it regularly, routinely, or I’ll stop – but I also have to keep telling myself to breathe, or I’ll stop. Though the friction of the world moving around me when I am still seems, at times, to be almost unbearable, it’s better than trying to force my rusty brain to keep up.
It’s grinding to level up. It’s a journey of a thousand miles starting with a single step. It’s the tortoise that beats the crap out of that flakey-ass hare.
Today I did basically nothing. This is uncommon for me, and I generally try to keep it so, but I’ve been losing ground every day this week, becoming more and more tired, getting my work done by narrower and narrower margins, staying up later and later, until finally, today, I just had to sleep. And sleep. And sleep. And I don’t know if this is the right approach or the healthy approach but it will be okay. I’ll do better. I don’t know what to write about so I’m telling myself it will be okay. I’ll figure out something better. It doesn’t all have to happen now. I have time.
I’ve learned through experience that I will not survive if I cannot accept the mediocrity of my genius, the fickleness of my talent, and the readiness of my failures. I must take it all. I must see the beauty around me and work it into my imagination to create, but see the ugliness as well, and see the blood which welds them together. I must see my strengths and my failings, and see the angle by which they share the same face. I see the light, and its warmth, and the darkness, with its cool, and I need them both, sometimes.
I’m sorry if you wanted something more from me, or something different. Maybe later I’ll have something else, but this is what is in me now. Is it laziness? Is it honesty? Is it art? Who cares?
I feel better for having written it. I can only hope you feel better for having read it.