About a year ago, I had begun to grow an avid affection for photography. I was utterly captivated by the beautiful landscapes people had captured inframe. It was then that I was hit by the strong anxiety to make art.
It was vicious. It was enthralling.
But most of all, it was terrifying.
Because it was then I realized I am no one and were I to create something amazing, something perfect, I could finally be something of worth.
It had to be the perfect. Perfect location. Perfect quality.
Perfect.
There was one slight oversight.
I am nowhere near perfection.
My camera falters at the slightest hint of darkness and I had no extravagant locale at my dispense. I was surrounded by the mundaneness of my quiet neighborhood.
I didn't have what it takes to make art.
I did have what it takes to make mistakes.
I do have what it takes to grow.
And perhaps, that in itself is beautiful.
Perhaps, perfection isn't all it's cracked up to be.
All the time spent staring at violently pristine pictures cooped up in the comfort of my room had overstimulated me.
It had robbed the beauty of reality. The joy of imperfection. My room had become a prison of fictitious worlds streaming out of my Safari window screen.
Perhaps, it was time to escape. To find the beauty of reality. To accept the joy of imperfection. To be captivated by a world outside my window.
