Something is coming. Call it a hunch, call it intuition, call it what you will. This overwhelming sense of dread takes over, and panic sets in. The panic is what keeps me awake. What prevents me from enjoying anything. That overwhelming sense of dread follows me like a dark cloud, constantly raining on my parade. Of course, my parade is filled with joker-esque clowns with sad faces and confetti explosions. We all know that confetti is the herpes of the crafts world, hence my disdain.
Fast forward a week. They’re pushing me farther and farther. They won’t stop pushing. Don’t they knew if they push too hard they’ll see the cracks? It feels like a ship riddled with bullet holes. All I’m prepared to do for these bullet holes is paste them up with Elmer’s glue and duct tape. Not an effective long-term solution. Day after day the gun they shoot me with reloads with new material, with special kinds of bullets. The shiny blue bullet insults my character. The dull purple bullet says I’m worthless. The neon green one calls me a failure. Damn these bullets for being so effective, despite all my progress.
Sometimes I know I’m not doing my best. Sometimes I know that I let these bullets wound me too deeply, preventing me from being my best self. Sometimes I can genuinely say that I’m doing the best possible job that I can, and anyone that doubts that can sit and spin. Sometimes, though? Sometimes I wonder if I have a best version of myself. What if it doesn’t exist?