I think about it, talk about it and there's so much excitement, the ideas grow like spring, but then I leave and alone it feels like burning in the summer sun, too hot for anything to thrive.
Expectations are complicated, especially the ones about oneself. Why is this so overwhelming when all I need to do is start and prevail?
I know that every little thing will make a whole move. Still, I find it impossible to get out of this grip. Like a giants hand weighing me down, stirring up my brain, suddenly everything is foggy and I lose sight, I can't enjoy the process if there is none, and that is on me, entirely.
I remember a time when things were clear, right before the need came back up, it didn't last for long but it was while I was sad, so this is not depression heavy on my limbs, it's more about stiffness, keeping things hard, still. I can't create when my shoulders are hard, I feel such dissatisfaction even in the ideal thought of life. What would actually make me happy? If anything was possible, what would I really want?
A novel, a balcony, nature, a tub. The music, the box, the zine, art. The study, the language, the sex, the love. The love. Do you want me to explain?
Finishing, finding settle within, but settle will never come. There is always another goal, more and such. But they have been tormenting me for far too long, and it may be time to let go.
Though maybe doing a small one, maybe the smallest one of all? It's a never-ending list, but a few "done" could make a new start.
The smallest, tiniest is the voice that guides.