I have treated every unfinished thing as if it were the last chance I would ever have to prove something, I have never once been able to fully articulate,
I have treated the work like it was already a verdict before it had the chance to become a draft, and wondered why beginning always felt like standing at the edge of something irreversible,
I have treated the idea like it was more precious than the making of it, held it so carefully, and so privately that it never had the chance to find out what it actually was in my world,
Do I actually believe that making this thing imperfectly is more dangerous than never making it at all, where exactly did I learn that a failed attempt costs more than the silence of never having tried far too many times,
I have treated every unfinished thing as a mirror where I was afraid to walk past, the avoidance has kept the room so clean, and so empty that I have almost stopped noticing what is missing from it...
I have burdened the work with a weight it was never intended to bear, and then I stood back and declared myself overwhelmed without acknowledging the load I had placed upon it before I even started,
I have given the task of defining me permanently, only to be surprised that sitting down to create something felt like agreeing to a sentence rather than embarking on an uncharted experiment,
I have given the work the whole story of who I am and whether that story deserves to be told, the work buckles under that kind of curiosity every single time without exception,
What would the beginning feel like if I handed the work a smaller assignment and kept the question of what it all means, for an initial conversation I could have with myself after it was done,
I have given the work everything I was afraid of in one enormous blast, and then stood at the door of starting and felt the full and unreasonable weight of everything I had handed it waiting for me on the other side...
I have confused the feeling of not being ready with the fact of in denial, and let the feeling make the case while it waited quietly in the corner and said nothing,
I have confused the fear of beginning with a predictable assessment of my capability, and let the confusion stand because it gave me a more acceptable reason to stay still and experiencing without any pain than the true one that I would have,
I have confused what I am making with what I am, so every correction to the work felt like a correction to my name and thus every criticism of the piece felt like a diagnosis of the person who made it,
When did I decide that making something imperfect would be more revealing of my failures, than making nothing and that immediate calculation ever once turned out to be the right one when I look back at it honestly without any initial judgment,
I have confused the temporary state of the draft with the permanent condition of my ability, also treated every rough and uncertain beginning as evidence for a conclusion I had already decided before the first line was ever written...
I have stood at the threshold of each and every beginning of something, given the loudest possible hearing to every voice that arrived with a reason why this particular moment was not the right one,
I have stood at each and every threshold and named those voices caution, diligence and self-awareness, when the more honest names for most of them were simply fear wearing the costume of limitation,
I have stood at the threshold so many times that the threshold itself has started to feel like a destination, thus the standing is like a choice I was actively making rather than a paralysis I was instinctively agreeing to,
What is the actual cost of this particular moment if I begin it badly compared to the cost of the years I have already paid, by choosing the threshold over the room it was standing in front of me,
I have stood at the threshold of beginning and let the perfect future version of the work stand in for the imperfect present version, until the present version ran out of time to exist at all, because the future does not reward the work I imagined, it inherits the work I actually began…
Watchwords:
A verdict before it had the chance to be a draft,
Loaded it before I began and called myself overwhelmed,
The fear wearing the costume of intelligence arrived,
The threshold itself became the destination I chose,
The present version ran out of time to exist...
Here is Tikatarot, who dares you to answer the question, “Who am I?”..
As and will always be reminding you to dream:
