That’s not the point. The end, I mean.
The product. The bold title. The finish line.
It’s the journey. The process.
The aching efforts and flexing and stretching.
It’s the what was, what is and will be,
all together yet intimately definable.
And it all starts
Because the beginning is the scariest. It’s the part where everything shouts, “Don’t do it. You’ll fail,” or “Why bother? It’ll only hurt/tire/exhaust you,” or “Nobody cares. Sit back down,” or “Everybody will care, and they can’t wait for you to fail.”
But that’s what makes you begin anyway, right? Because doing anything but, is even more painful and keeping all that is within you isn’t only toxic to yourself but the world around you. Because we need it.
That thing inside of you that you can’t ignore, that itches and waits patiently at your door. And greets you in the morning but strains sleeplessly at night. That idea, that word, that work of art.
The art in you. The art of you.
But welcoming it out is scary. Because acknowledging it, putting it to paper, starting… is what makes it possible. It makes it real.
And reality is hard. It’s vulnerable. It’s fragile. It’s never finished. It’s viewable, tangible, mis-understandable. But it tells fear that you are getting started. And that you are imperfect. (The lie that you must be perfect can sit down. We don’t have time for that. Grab it, look it in the face, wrestle it. Define it and make it powerless.)
You’re a work of art. Poetry in progress. A piece, under construction.
So, let’s get started.