I name the real risk, I notice how my biggest fear isn’t failure itself, it’s the feeling of being exposed while failing, like my mistakes would become my real identity,
I name the real risk, I admit I sometimes sabotage first so I can say I chose the outcome, because chosen pain feels less humiliating than surprise pain, pretending it wouldn’t be that painful,
I name the real risk, I confess that I’ve treated self-control as a punishment where it’s the sole means by which I prevent myself from becoming the architect of my own downfall,
I name the real risk, asking if I can hold the silence before impulse writes the next move,
I name the real risk, holding still long enough to choose, trusting that a quiet pause can shape a better next step than reaction ever could…
I make room for the critic without surrendering, noticing how the nit-picking voice appears when I’m fragile, speaking with certainty but leaving me smaller each time I listen,
I make room for the critic without surrendering, I admit I’ve let negativity flood my tiny beginnings, then wondered why my motivation vanished like it never existed after all,
I make room for the critic without surrendering, I confess I need boundaries inside my own mind, because not every thought deserves the power to define me,
I make room for the critic without surrendering, letting it ask what it must, then choosing for myself how long it stays,
I make room for the critic without surrendering, I keep my door half-closed on purpose…
I ask if it’s true, I sit with what I’m making and feel for that quiet honesty, the kind that doesn’t perform, the kind that doesn’t beg to be liked,
I ask if it’s true, I admit I often adjust my voice to protect my own image, then feel empty because the work no longer sounds like the honest me,
I ask if it’s true, I confess that I yearn to be courageous enough to express myself in my own unique voice, even if it entails the risk of being misunderstood,
I ask if it’s true, whether I’m fabricating this from a fear of judgment or from the truth that I can barely comprehend,
I ask if it’s true, I hold onto what’s real and release what isn’t…
I shape it in my own unique way, realizing that my fear of looking ordinary has often stopped me from creating honestly,
I shape it in my own unique way, I admit my best work happens when I stop trying to impress the room and start trying to surprise myself alone,
I shape it in my own unique way, I confess that I don’t require perfection to be distinctive, all I need is presence, is risk, and my undivided, focused attention,
I shape it in my own unique way, can I tell a simple truth in my own surprising form,
I shape it in my own unique way, stepping out of fear’s imitation and listening for the rhythm that belongs only to me…
Watchwords:
Chosen pain feels less humiliating than surprise,
Not every thought deserves the microphone,
The work no longer sounds like me,
Am I shaping this from fear or truth,
I stop copying my fear and listen,
Here is Tikatarot, who dares you to answer the question, “Who am I?”..
As and will always be reminding you to dream:
