Borrowed notebooks sit beside my bed like a comfort blanket, full of lines I underline because they sounded brave, because they sounded true, because I want their certainty to rub off on my bare skin,
Borrowed notebooks remind me how easy it is to live inside other people’s sentences, repeating them when I’m shaken, quoting them when I’m unsure, hiding behind them when my own voice feels small and unheard,
And borrowed notebooks quietly ask if I will know my own beliefs once these borrowed pages instantly run out or disappeared,
But borrowed notebooks tell me, respect for what taught me and trust in my own voice can coexist…
Quoting is easier because it keeps me safe, because it lets me borrow authority, because it makes me feel like I’m standing next to greatness instead of risking being ordinary and maybe wrong,
Quoting is easier because when people nod at a quote, I get to feel wise without exposing the messy truth of how I actually learned anything—through mistakes, through shame, through trying and trying again,
And quoting comes easily, which asks me whether these words transformed me, or simply protect me from looking too closely at myself,
But quoting is easier tells me, I don’t have to stay behind someone else’s language but I can pass through it into my own understanding as they slowly sync to me…
My own claim begins the moment I stop waiting for someone else to validate my insight, like I’m not allowed to know anything unless a famous voice said it first,
My own claim grows when I admit that I have lived through things, survived things, learned things, and that my lived lessons are not inferior just because they weren’t printed in a classic book,
And my own claim asks me, what have I learned the hard way that I keep dismissing because it isn’t polished, because it isn’t poetic, because it came from bruises and not from applause,
But my own claim tells me, I can treat my experience as real evidence and let it earn a page of its own…
Stepping into my own words feels intimidating because it means I can’t hide behind anybody’s authority, I have to stand in the open with my own imperfect truth and risk being misunderstood,
Stepping into my own words means I stop collecting wisdom like souvenirs and start shaping it into something I can actually live by, something that sounds like me, something that fits my real days,
And stepping into my own words makes me wonder, how l’ll hold onto what life has taught me if I never record it, when time softens memory and excuses grow persuasive,
But taking the pen tells me, I can write one honest paragraph today, and that is already me stepping out of dependence and into ownership…
Watchwords:
• Quotes can guide, not replace me
• My lived lessons count
• I can speak without borrowing a mask
• One honest paragraph is a beginning
• I choose ownership over imitation
Here is Tikatarot, who dares you to answer the question, “Who am I?”..
As and will always be reminding you to dream:
