I’m still trying to figure out what works for me, what direction I want my art to take. It sometimes feels like I’m trying too hard to fit the mold I put myself in. Trying too hard to write and share something when a single sentence would do. A few words out of the thousand I know. Through trials and errors, I’m searching for my way, not fearing rewriting, removing, remastering my words until I’m satisfied with the work I share.

Writing, as I’m learning, is a process. Like every forms of art, like everything I learn, it isn’t something I can master overnight. I can’t be a writer only by reading about it’s theory and dipping my toes in its waters once or twice when I feel like it. In order to reach the goals I have in mind, I must get my hands dirty. Get out of my comfort zone. Theory helps but practice is what makes me better at what I do. Only through practice can I know exactly what I am capable of, what needs to be done to be greater.

Many before me wrote or said those words. They worked the way they did because they understood the importance of the process, the practice of their writing in their daily lives. They might have been afraid of their own capacities, might have feared their work was not good enough, might even have felt like usurpers of the title that fitted their desires, but it never stopped them. Despite fear, they chose to show up to work every day and put it out there.

I’m glad they did.

I feel close to them, those who came before. Despite space and time, our feelings, our hopes, our fears are similar. I read it in their poems, their memoirs, their journals. I see it in their paintings, their scultpures, their movies. I hear it in their music, their songs, their lyrics, voices soft, deep, loud. I pick up the flames they left in this world and mingle it with mine until I can pass it on to another. Some fires burn as bright as the day they were lit, even centuries after. Others became embers, almost ashes, forgotten in the depths of time, until one soul found it and brought it back alive. No matter where I pick it up, no matter its brightness when I’ll be gone, I’ll keep that fire alive. I chose to carry it. This is what it means to make art, to be human, one generation after the other, a long process of experimentations still being perfected to this day. A chain of creation I am proud to be part of.

I’ll figure it out at my own pace. Until then, I’ll be scribbling madly in the corner, sharing once in a while, when I finally find the words that match together just the right way.

I’m pushing farther everyday. The limits haven’t been found yet. I wonder if I’ll ever reach them.

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