Haven’t been writing for a long time. Constant pressure of perfectionism, unrealistic demands of writing the most interesting, engaging kind of post. But today I’m brave enough to write about whatever I feel however imperfectly I can express it. There’s a feeling of relief following this statement. My writing is good as it is, which doesn’t mean it can’t be improved, but underlines the value of
authenticity of imperfection.
There’s a voice in my head telling me not to do things, not even attempt doing them because of how laughable I will appear to everyone, how I will be utterly annihilated by brutal criticism. Today I’m risking not to listen to this voice and this feels great. A rebellion against decades-old fear is the only reason why this post exists. I hope I can continue tomorrow…
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