I thought it would feel like, a door clicking shut behind me, clean and final, but opened a new door,
I thought it would feel like, the moment after you say the last word of something, a whole new thought of something,
I thought it would feel like, a weight lifting instead of a slow bloodletting, blood rising as a whole lot chance of adventure,
I thought it would feel like, but why does almost finishing feel like losing a home I lived both inside and out,
I thought it’d feel like arrival, but now I wonder if I’m grieving the destination or the part of me that thought reaching it would mean something…
The work was done, but my hands didn't know it, they kept reaching for what wasn't there, but identifying what was happening,
The work was done, and I stood in the empty room of it not knowing how to leave the thrilling feeling out the door,
The work was done, even while every part of me wanted to tear it open and start all over again, I wanted to make sure the purpose is right,
The work was done, so why am I still holding it like something that needs my mind to survive, but still wants my heart us pounding to follow,
The work was done, but letting go was the hardest stroke I never learned to make, I mistook my ability to keep changing until I trusted what made enough to let go…
Something in me refused, to call it finished, as if finishing meant I had failed to build it enough, to the right direction I wanted to take,
Something in me refused, the relief that was supposed to come, chose the hardest first instead of what is comfortable now,
Something in me refused to unclench from what I had poured myself into, because it is never final I still wanted the freedom to change it without carrying the burden,
Something in me refused, and I keep asking — when did making it become the only way I felt real, but time later made me realize that this is not the only way after all,
Something in me refused to let it go I could not quite imagine, protecting the work was one thing, but learning how to part with what had become a piece of me was another…
Building something you loved without distance is another cost, now, believing that you should never be attached to the outcome is another,
Building something has its cost, the depth of my devotion should be measured not by how much of myself I exhaust, but by what I can create without losing myself in the making,
Building something has a cost, so engrossed in the process and outcome that completion feels like dying, the purpose is fulfilled only when I release without losing my essence,
This is the cost, am I afraid it won't survive without me, or have I confused caring and carrying it forever, but what I create must eventually be allowed to live beyond my hands,
This is the cost of creating the way I need to, now, I have already learned how to create with one hand while keeping the other free to hold myself freely…
Watchwords:
My hands kept reaching for what wasn't there,
Finishing felt like losing a country,
Letting go was the hardest stroke I never learned,
Becoming tangled in the making,
All of me or nothing at all,
Here is Tikatarot, who dares you to answer the question, “Who am I?”..
As and will always be reminding you to dream: