I am an excellent writer!
Because last year I devoted myself to thinking about life, and one thought amongst many that visited me was this one: The art is not important. And I became a writer.
The art is not as important, as I forced myself to believe, signing up to the stereotype that one succeeds by being focused, hard-working and disciplined, doing one thing at a time. I stuck to that in a focused and disciplined way and it didn’t work.
Now I do whatever I am pleased to do and I am more productive than ever!
If previously I’d delete an email such as this (well, actually, I wouldn’t have signed up in the first place) as a waste of time, today I am allowing myself to embark on a totally useless ramble, a certain dead-end of an activity, allowing for an adventure to happen, for the sincronicity to occur. Pourquoi not?
When did I last time go on an adventure?
It’s been so long ago – I can’t remember. What stops me? Responsibilities. No, wait, not that. It is the fear of smearing the carefully painted image of demi-respectability by doing something out of place, out of order, inappropriate for my age or whatever. Blast it!
Blast it! I shall not be a slave to the communal stupidity. I’d rather be a victim of my own.
There it is, my declaration of intent, my manifesto: Freedom to write, to create, to cry; in paint, in words, in code, in notes – is all mine! Heed!