Fear can be acknowledged and honored, but albeit being there, it’s not in control. Fear can be irrational and flawed and scarred because it’s human. It’s lovely and soft and feels safe, but it keeps me from having the life I want for myself. I choose to know my fear and be familiar with it in order to go beyond it.
Maybe fear has been betrayed once and doesn’t have faith anymore. Maybe fear doesn’t believe in progress and the potential of mediocrity, it only wants the kind of perfection that’s tiptoeing around, the elusive kind that has not bled and sweated and teared up to become what it is. How is that fair? It’s not.
That kind of perfection only exists in the imagination, and I don’t want to live a life of reverence for an illusion. Authenticity, the ugly one, the tired one, the i’m-not-perfect-but-i-am-real authenticity is very needed in the face of that delusion. I want that authenticity to keep my words alive, and to keep me humble.
The precaution of inaction is a false precaution, because it leads to regret. It leads to the very same failure I’m fearing. This precaution is lying to me, and lures me in with the promise of safety but it’s for a price that I don’t want to pay.
I refuse to live a life of fear. I don’t want to pay for that kind of safety with my creativity, because my creativity is what keeps me alive. It’s what makes me happy. It’s what makes life fun and enjoyable and kind of dope when I think about it. I’m not ready to negociate that for miserable and regretful safety or fake and illusionary perfection.
I choose to believe that my creative pursuit is inherently worthy. I choose to believe that my creative endeavors are worthy. Even if it goes against what I’ve been internalizing for years and against the stream of messages I might have been sent from past failures.
This is a form of self love, this is a rebellious thought. Believing that one’s voice matters enough to be voiced, and that one’s art can rise from something undecided to something sure.
Zaïnab 