My foray into writing started out unintentionally, as the result of being in love with reading since I was five years old. When I was eleven, diving into my imagination and my emotions seemed so much easier than it can be today. Although poetry still comes to me quite naturally, prose tends to take my mind in vicious over analytical cycle, where I strive to paint the pictures as vividly as they live in my mind, often never fully satisfied with the result. Not only do I do this with my creative endeavours, the anxiety I get over life decisions of varying degrees of importance causes me to create rules for myself that often make little to no sense.
I want my brain to excel beyond my physical limitations. I have this need to prove myself to be an intelligent, understanding, kind and considerate individual who has no problem with expressing herself. This has always come from the fear that I won’t be seen for who I truly am unless I am able to contribute something of great value to the world. My standards are much higher than those that others may expect of me, and though I recognize that now, I’m so used to it that changing is still a much prolonged learning process.
I’m not perfect, and I will never be perfect…not even through compensating for one area of my life in another. I am trying to give myself permission to try. For now, it’s the only step there is for me to take.
I’m not perfect? I will only ever be, and I don’t want to be sorry for that.