I am writing. I am actually writing. Already, the world feels different than it did before.
The process has been more difficult than I secretly hoped it would be. There are good days and bad days, and the latter have been slightly more numerous than the former. Every day is a new cliff, and on bad days, I am as full of fear as I have ever been.
But on good days, I can write three pages at a sitting, with parenthetical directions to sources I need to cite and notes on where I ought to write next. On good days, I almost enjoy doing it. Today was a good day.
It isn’t normal yet, this writing. It’s too fragile. I still think that it could disappear at any moment, which I suspect is how I feel about everything that matters to me. Nevertheless, each finished page makes the cliff a little bit smaller, which is something.
I’ve been thinking a lot about a horoscope I read the other day, which outlined my astrological influences for the year ahead. Virtually everything in it resonated with me, but especially this:
Perfection is not a value. Indeed, it is most often a trap, a temptation, and the worst kind at that. Because it's the kind of trap that feels virtuous, it can be a particularly difficult one to escape. And why would you want to escape? Unlike most other forms of escapism, so you can be free. Free is clearly what you are trying to be. Free is making itself known to you. Free is calling your name. Free is showing up in your life, your dreams, and rattling your planet.
The opposite of free is perfect.