I know, I am not perfect. Nobody is and I don’t want to be perfect. It’s way too much effort and incredibly vain. Even thou, my personal perfectionism has led me to more than questionable decisions, accompanied by countless night shifts, writing, rephrasing and layouting my own words. Until I realized, those where not my words. It has been my words, going back in time and be the editor of flair magazine again and also me, not being female enough for the job at a woman’s magazine. I rewrote them so often, I din’t even knew myself anymore, what I was actually writing about. Cliches or my injured ego, after the effort I had put in and suggesting the changes, which were following just a few months after I left?
The Fear Of Missing Out: Mistakes
There’s always this tiny, annoying voice in my head: „You are not good enough. Try harder. We want to see you suffer, for your dreams.“ But it’s not the glitter or the fame and glory, nor the hype with a fast goodbye, I’m aiming for. I want to write and express myself, maybe even do it for those, who remain silent. Yet, again the social media bubble vs. myself as a serious journalist and artist. The surface has to be polished, perfect and static, otherwise we would give up control and will, forced onto it. Pictures inspired me to dig deeper, cultivate my aesthetics and find my signature style, make it easier every day.
Maybe I’m a dreamer rather than a visionnaire, missing out the essentials in life and being stoned at all time. Somehow, it was one of the happiest days in my life—in a long period—and I remember myself waking up with a smile this particular morning, knowing it would be a great one. The urge for social acceptance is dragging me back on the dark side again and as usual in need of money, this question remains: which kind of writer do I want to be? Do I really wanna step back and write about all that glamour, or do I really care about what’s going on in our society?
Don’t do this, don’t do that…
I can’t remember a day in my life without fear, except the last few weeks. May it had been my parents or teachers, when I was a teenager. Or my grandmothers cousin, a priest. Priests are scary anyway. Nowadays I only fear not being polite or conscious enough, whenever I’m starting a conversation or new article. Since I grew older—I’ve already discovered my first gray hair—I tend to take things less seriously, when it comes to vanity. I simply move on and feel unrealistically realistic, while expecting nothing more than a series of wonders. Have we forgotten, how that has mostly worked out in our childhoods?
Guess I’m just focussing on what’s important, my loved ones or the progress of David’s training. The last week has shown me, even if your data breaks, there’s always hope for recovering. The mistakes I’ve made, showed me that wonders are everywhere. We just have to be open for failures in the first place. If there’s no risk, there’s no joy in it. △