I just had a great idea,
and it’s pretty fuckin’ epic.
But I can’t tell you what it is. It’s hard to articulate. I can’t find the right words, and words wouldn’t do it justice anyway. Imprisoning it in meaningless letters would just water it down, like murky fumes coughed up through the lips like a dirty old chimney. Putting it down on paper would just trap in a slimy, fragile little bubble drifting haphazardly through the air with no direction, waiting for the particulate in the air to bring its short existence to a merciful end.
If only you could crawl into my brain and see it through my mind’s eye and understand.
How much of a coward do you have to be to make up so many excuses for yourself not to pursue your passions? And how fearful are you of defeat to have to constantly lie to yourself?
Occasionally, I get an idea for a creative project that I really like. I toy with the idea for a bit, rearrange and reassemble it in my head, imagine the various iterations of a successful model and what kind of reception it might have, and I get excited about it. And I want to get started right away.
But then I think no this isn’t feasible, I don’t have the resources or I don’t have enough time, or this won’t get anywhere and people won’t support me and I’ll be wasting my time.
To protect the great idea from these thoughts, I tuck it deep in the back of my brain for safekeeping. I nourish it daily with pipe dreams about an alternate reality in which I do act on it and it grows into something I am proud of. I shine and polish the gleaming pod that I have encased it in. I vow never to expose it to the harsh elements of the real world.
The more I like the idea, the less inclined I am to ever pursue it. When it stays an idea floating in the space behind my eyes, it will always be full of promise and hope. But once it escapes from my thoughts to land itself on someone else’s ears or eyes, it quickly oxidises and corrodes; all its flaws are illuminated under the cold white light of others’ judgements and it becomes uglier and cruder and suddenly it’s frayed and unlovable and I don’t know how to make it beautiful again.
Who isn’t at least a little afraid to be told that they aren’t good enough? Why is fear of failure and disapproval such a big handicap? I wish I could get it all down it words but they can’t contain enough of the mess really.