The memories and scars are far too fresh for me to go around discussing my terpsichorean early life, the dance lessons and tap shoes and recitals nowhere near sybaritic. Nor can I tell you about the hebetude-filled years I spent studying piano before I finally reached a point at which I could drop it permanently. I have a list about a thousand miles long of things I dropped, and another list that's about a million miles long filled with reasons why. 

   Now, don't get me wrong, not very many of those things were things I ended up enjoying, anyway. Dance was supposed to be a release, a weight lifted off of my back, a catharsis, but all I ended up experiencing was having to endure twenty minute lessons where my legs had to be stretched stiff and my stomach was threatening to burst if I didn't collapse onto the cold, hardwood floor of the dance studio. 

   But, there were a few exceptions. Numerous points in my life have I created blogs, only to abandon them, or, worse, delete them in a fit of self-criticising rage. I've also dropped reading for a time, many times, and making videos or art---please. Don't even get me started. 

   I've abused, hated, and tortured myself over all of those so-called passions, and books, videos, and art were all things that I had previously liked. Perhaps I had even liked piano for a short, delusional period of time before I decided it was the absolute worst thing that had ever happened to anyone in the history of the universe. (Joking, of course. That worst thing was actually The Phantom Menace.) 

   The most ironic part of this whole overly melodramatic situation was the fact that none of that torture was actually the result of my doing {insert torturous activity.} It was the result of deciding to do it. Before I even put my hands upon the keys, before I even started tapping away at the keyboard, before I even pressed the record button, I'd turn the method of practice into an unnecessary, but very real, hell. 

   It was the worst feeling in the world to make up my mind to finally write something or play a piece or make a video, and then to have it all crashed down by foolish inhibitions I had much wished to fight away. That feeling still comes to me now, when I try to talk to people, when I try to write reviews, when I try to do anything I enjoy, even if it comes with no creative benefit, there's a lingering fear of imperfection, the anticipation of a grand failure, and with it comes locked muscles and a blank mind. 

   This isn't some petty self-esteem issue, no, it goes much, much further. I've wanted absolute perfection from myself since the time I was young and not finding it but enriching myself is something my conscious mind accepts and appreciates, but it is something that my unconscious mind is nowhere near tolerating. 

   In order to fight this, I have started with something small. First, it was learning the names and locations and flags and capitals of all the countries, states, provinces, and territories I could think of, trying to force myself to find joy in the process of learning it, as I hadn't in years. 

   Now it has moved on to something much, much more challenging: this. It's much closer to creating something original and creative, but I doubt I'm ready for that just yet. I insist on telling myself over and over again that I must write and write and write and not worry about the end result, just immerse myself in the words and occupy all thoughts of the day onto this one passion, and maybe, just maybe, if my perfectionist mind can be fought, subdued, or inveigled into being fit for art, the passions can return, my inner author can be at piece, and I might even pick up a few pieces of sheet music, just for the hell of it. 

   My situation at the moment is optimal for trial and error, as well as assurance: having zero followers on most of my social platforms, barely entering into the world of literature, and barely calling myself an expert. For now, I plan on shouting my ideas on books into the void, immersing myself in words, and keeping myself far too busy to think about how imperfect I am. And how flawed my work is.