The left over yarn we keep in a shoebox. The half onion we
wrap in foil, and promise to use, only to rediscover three weeks later dry and shriveled
in the fridge. The manuscript we give up on after so many rejections. The
admiration we hide for someone we’ve just met, so as not to seem too ardent or
desperate. The parts of us we keep hidden after the world told us they are
madness. The potential we ignore because the world convinced us it has no value.
The joyous belly laughter we suppress, until all humor dies inside us.
Our families strip us from our truth, when they tell us who
we should be. Our societies rob us from our individuality when they mold us
into something only useful to the collective.
From the very beginning, we set off in search of ourselves.
We don’t know how we lost our selves or where. We look for our truth in
superstition, in personality tests, in zodiac signs, in religion and
spirituality, and worse of all in other people. We are afraid of being alone,
because loneliness is the only mirror that reflects us, and we’ve never met us
before. We are afraid of being alone, because in our solitude we’re forced to
listen to our inner thoughts, the thoughts that don’t sugarcoat, or flatter us.
They are sharp, plain, and honest.
Later in life we discover that our truth is in the things we
are passionate about, the things that don’t necessarily bring us revenue, but
bring us fulfillment. Our quiet moments when we choose to turn our backs to the
noisy world outside. The courage we feel, when we learn how much ridicule,
persecution, and isolation, the creatives we admire had to endure, fighting for
their truth, being who they really are.
Listen to this vignette here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_qmo-8PYsE&t=11s
