If I take this story in my hands
It is less than perfect
The steps that get us to where we are
Are rarely beautiful
They look quirky
Different lengths
Patterns
Some will leave splinters in your hands
As a warning
Don’t do that again
Behind every masterpiece
Is a dumpster
Full of rubbish
But look closely
the fingerprints of the offcuts
Still matter
Nothing created is ever worthless
The writing all the way through
Crumpled paper
Deleted files
Flown time
Energy cast into the void
Is the unfurling of an author
And if you deny the beginnings
You miss
Sometimes
The best part of becoming
Once you know the road
You can always return
Following the route
doing it once
Teaches you how to do it
Heat creeps up my cheeks. The sigh disperses it a bit.
So many people lack the ability to fail. I have no such compunctions. I have thrown myself into the chute so many times, failure itself seems infallible now.
These are the roots that hold you. The mistakes and failures become milestones and steps – thinking you can get from A to E without B, C and D is where the real ignorance lies.
So many people fear to begin because they don’t want to look like a loser. Or they throw out or hide all the parts that were valuable. The lessons.
And sit there in sanctimony like they were born perfect
No one was born perfect – and even fewer of us will die that way
But we can die tryers – and that is a much more satisfying way to expire
