Sometimes the world fades away, I recall the rare moments when I’m so engrossed in my work that I lose track of myself but it’s a sense of relief I didn’t realize I was craving,
Sometimes the world fades away, I confess I crave that kind of disappearance, the good kind, because I’m tired of carrying my own doubt like it’s a second body,
Sometimes the world fades away, I’ve noticed that it only happens when I’m present long enough for my mind to soften and cease demanding proof every minute,
Sometimes, the world fades away, Am I willing to endure the dull hours so that I can reach the precious minutes I needed,
Sometimes the world fades away, I stay until the door opens on its own…
A melody flows through my fingers, I think about those strange blessed times when the work almost writes itself, and I feel jealous of my own potential like it belongs to someone else,
A melody flows through my fingers, I confess that I’ve chased that feeling too hard, and chasing makes it run, because desperation is beyond loud and flow is too quiet,
A melody flows through my fingers, I notice how it arrives when I stop over gripping, when I’m doing the work for the work, not for the outcome, not even for the praise,
A melody flows through my fingers, yet I persist in demanding ecstasy before completing my daily devotion,
A melody flows through my fingers as I return to practice, allowing my own magic to visit me…
I choose the next brushstroke, I accept that my journey is made of small movements that don’t look heroic, and I admit I’ve disrespected them for years,
I choose the next brushstroke, I confess I wanted the identity of “creator” more than the discipline of really creating, and saying that out loud stings,
I choose the next brushstroke, I notice how self-sufficiency is not a mood but a decision I make again and again even when nobody is cheering,
I choose the next brushstroke, will I stop waiting to feel fearless and start being faithful to your craft instead,
I choose the next brushstroke, I place one mark after another until it becomes a painting…
I suppress my own impulse not as an enemy but as something young and untrained, moved aside with patience and control,
I suppress my own impulse, I confess that I’ve been overly lenient with my excuses and overly critical of my efforts, as if I’m comforting the wrong part of myself,
I suppress my own impulses, I observe how freedom flourishes when I cease letting my emotions dictate my actions, and I become the sole arbiter of my own destiny,
I suppress my own impulse, can I even lead myself the way I wish someone else would lead me and my own dreams,
I suppress my own impulse, move forward one step at a time, and trust that continuity will carry me…
Watchwords:
Sometimes the world falls away, endure dull hours
A melody finds my fingers, return to practice
I choose the next brushstroke, be faithful
I knock the impulse off, lead myself
Here is Tikatarot, who dares you to answer the question, “Who am I?”..
As and will always be reminding you to dream:
