THE ILLUSION OF FEAR AND PERFECTION

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a few seconds ago
inScholar and Scribe

pexels-wendy-wei-1537636.jpg
Photo by Wendy Wei

"Our next act isn't yet a big name in the industry," said the MC in his usual electrifying manner, the microphone's handle tilting towards the ceiling, its windscreen lowered towards his mouth, forming an angle of inclination with his luscious lips, "but neither is he a non-entity. He made it to this dandy rostrum because he managed to thrill our astute judges in the audition, which was a buildup to this eclectic show," added the MC.

He paused to gather enough air in his lungs before screeching,

"Ladies and gentlemen, be ready for a time of your life as I welcome on stage the next big thing in the music industry, Emmmmmmkeeeeels."

There is a roar of screams, accompanied by claps and deafening chatter, as I mount the stage. Sooner than the screams came, they faded, indicating that they weren't originally meant for me. The cheers were only an innate reaction to the charisma of the compere.

Before now, the realization that I wasn't an artist enough to be lauded would've further depleted what was left of my already depleted confidence. But at this moment, I could care less; the ground could open and swallow me up. I mean, the worst can happen. What I'm sure of is that I'm no longer going to live under the illusion of fear. It's high time I shared my gift with the world.

The theatrical fog, as though emulating the screams, also faded. The dim stage light joined the chorus, making way for white light, whose only mission is to focus on me. I'm stripped of all coverage; I'm exposed to my worst fearβ€”the very thing I have shielded myself from for years.

pexels-wendy-wei-1916821.jpg
Photo by Wendy Wei

The arena is now a graveyard. All ears and eyes are on me. Their countenance suggests that they want to see Mr. John Doe of the event flounder, so they could ask the show organisers for a refund and a written apology for wasting their golden time. At this point, the Nigerian in me is muttering, "God no go shame me." ( God will not disgrace me.)

I take a step closer to the standing microphone in front of me before striking a key on the guitar, suspended from my neck to waist region. My backup artists and instrumentalists respond, creating currents of harmonies. All the atoms of fear are drowned in the melodious harmony.

My lips parted effortlessly, releasing streams of symphonic vocals into the microphone. The crowd is revived by it. The arena is back to life as the harmonious rhythm saturates the space. Their faces are printed with genuine joy. The radiant smile they are wearing will live rent-free in my head for a lifetime.

What a relief!

You see, despite discovering my musical adeptness at a tender age, the illusion of fear and perfection locked it away. I kept writing songs that never made it past my notepads. Only close friends and family ever got to be blessed by my sonorous voice.

It was a few days until my birthday; as it happens every year, my self-awareness and consciousness are at their peaks. My sensitivity is even more sensitive. As I'm reading an article from one of my favourite self-development coaches on Hive.blog, I will come across some quotes that will give me the boldness to audition for the show, in which I'm currently putting on an exhilarating performance.

The quotes read:

"Don't wait for perfection. Perfection is only an illusion. You're as good as you can be; you could be better, but right now, you're good. Don't waste a single second trying to be perfect, because you won't be. Manifest your gifts to the world. Don't forget, you're good as you are."

Those words pierced through the core of my being. The fact is that all my life, I never believed that my craft was good enough. Self-doubt drove me to live in the illusion of perfection.

After reading those lines, I can't remember completing the article. Instead, I immediately put a call through to my manager, who was shocked to hear me say,

"I'm ready. Put me on any stage; I will do it."

He read the determination in the tone of my voice, I believe, because he will later call me for the audition that led to this performance.

In the showroom, the audience is now going wild. The whole place is animated. I was given only five minutes. Not much was expected of an unknown entity, but as my performance comes to a close, my name is being hollered from every direction. They can't get enough of it.

I'm now seated at the backstage, and passersby, some of whom gave me a mischievous look earlier on, are greeting me with winks. Some are getting my contacts and taking selfies with me.

I came to this concert as a nobody, but I'm walking out as a great performing artist. Clearly, this is one of many thousands of performances to come. I can bet on that, because I will never again live in the illusion of fear and perfection.

Indeed, great things happen when we stop living in the illusion of fear and perfection.

The end

PS: 𝑰𝒇 π’šπ’π’–'𝒓𝒆 π’‰π’‚π’—π’Šπ’π’ˆ π’…π’Šπ’‡π’‡π’Šπ’„π’–π’π’•π’š π’…π’†π’„π’Šπ’…π’Šπ’π’ˆ π’˜π’‰π’†π’•π’‰π’†π’“ 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆 π’•π’‰π’Šπ’” π’‚π’“π’•π’Šπ’„π’π’† 𝒂𝒔 π’‡π’Šπ’„π’•π’Šπ’π’ 𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒏-π’‡π’Šπ’„π’•π’Šπ’π’, 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 π’†π’™π’‚π’„π’•π’π’š π’˜π’‰π’‚π’• 𝒕𝒉𝒆 π’˜π’“π’Šπ’•π’†π’“ π’˜π’‚π’π’•π’†π’…. 𝑯𝒆 π’˜π’‚π’π’•π’†π’… π’šπ’π’– 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂 π’•π’π’–π’ˆπ’‰ π’•π’Šπ’Žπ’† π’…π’π’Šπ’π’ˆ 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕.

𝑯𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒅 π’“π’†π’‚π’π’Šπ’•π’š 𝒂𝒏𝒅 π’‡π’Šπ’„π’•π’Šπ’π’ 𝒕𝒐 π’‡π’π’“π’Ž 𝒂 π’Žπ’Šπ’™.

π‘Ύπ’Šπ’•π’‰ π’π’π’π’š 𝒂 π’‡π’†π’˜ π’…π’‚π’šπ’” π’–π’π’•π’Šπ’ π’Žπ’š π’ƒπ’Šπ’“π’•π’‰π’…π’‚π’š, π’Žπ’š 𝒍𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒍 𝒐𝒇 π’”π’†π’π’”π’Šπ’•π’Šπ’—π’Šπ’•π’š π’Šπ’” π’•π’“π’–π’π’š 𝒂𝒕 π’Šπ’•π’” π’‰π’Šπ’ˆπ’‰π’†π’”π’•. 𝑰𝒕 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 π’…π’‚π’˜π’π’†π’… 𝒐𝒏 π’Žπ’† 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰'𝒗𝒆 π’˜π’‚π’”π’•π’†π’… π’Žπ’–π’„π’‰ π’•π’Šπ’Žπ’† π’•π’“π’šπ’Šπ’π’ˆ 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕; 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒏'𝒕 π’˜π’† 𝒂𝒍𝒍?

𝑰'𝒗𝒆 π’•π’‚π’Œπ’†π’ π’Žπ’‚π’π’š π’‚π’„π’•π’Šπ’π’π’” 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒆𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑰'π’Ž 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂 π’Žπ’–π’”π’Šπ’„π’Šπ’‚π’. 𝑰 π’‘π’†π’“π’‡π’π’“π’Ž, π’•π’‰π’π’–π’ˆπ’‰β€”π‘° 𝒓𝒂𝒑 π’Žπ’π’”π’•π’π’š. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 π’Žπ’š π’”π’•π’“π’π’π’ˆ π’‚π’ƒπ’Šπ’π’Šπ’•π’Šπ’†π’”. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 π’Žπ’‚π’π’š π’•π’‰π’Šπ’π’ˆπ’” 𝑰'π’Ž π’…π’π’Šπ’π’ˆ 𝒐𝒓 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒅𝒐 𝒐𝒏 𝒂 π’‘π’“π’π’‡π’†π’”π’”π’Šπ’π’π’‚π’ 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒆. 𝑰 π’˜π’Šπ’π’ 𝒑𝒖𝒕 π’Žπ’šπ’”π’†π’π’‡ 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 π’Žπ’π’“π’† π’Šπ’ 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒔.

𝑺𝒐, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒕𝒐 π’Žπ’†, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 π’”π’π’Žπ’† 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒏'𝒕.

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