I remember this time in the project. This is the time where I was so behind. I had a few days left, and about two decades of tales to write. To tweet.
I was entirely ready to give up on the project. I missed my goal. It was a fun dream, a fun challenge for myself. I had surpassed the one hundred mark, wasn’t that good enough? Wasn’t that something to be proud of? A feat in itself? Wasn’t that something I could walk away from and be happy with and learn from?
No.
It wasn’t.
I wouldn’t have been happy with it.
I wouldn’t have been proud of it.
I would have seen it as a failure.
Sure #130tales gathered me much attention, followers and comments on Twitter. Sure it got my mind thinking in different ways. But if I had let the deadline pass without the project seeing completion, all I would be doing would be showing that, broadcasting that to the world. Broadcasting one’s failure is something I definitely didn’t want to do, but felt utterly helpless about changing.
It’s amazing what one person can do for you.
It’s amazing what one person’s interest in you, one person’s belief can do to completely re-energize your self-worth, and confirm your artistic integrity.
In the same respects, it’s amazing how one person can do the exact opposite.
I float between these two extremes in an almost predictable pattern. I am haunted and blessed by muses. I don’t know if it’s a productive way to creatively live, but it’s not a thing I really have control over (and doubt I ever will). It is the way I am.
I am blessed to be surrounded by beautiful people I want to challenge, and want to be challenged by. The idea of working with them ignites my creative oils in a way no match ever could.
On the other hand, I am haunted by losing the interest of those people. I am haunted by losing those people. And I have. And it is not pleasant. And it sadly happens more often than I’d like it to. That’s the thing I don’t have control of. The thing I don’t understand.
That’s the thing that messes me up.
I’m starting to learn how to deal with it though.
Because it is almost predictable.
Now I know that I just have to wait for that one person to come along
and amaze me all over again.
~
130 Tales
# 111 through 120
111. Through the park, you know, under the bridge, on the other side you’ll see a house with a second floor door that leads to nowhere.
112. The town was in low spirits; who could want to see its park in flames? Billy didn’t know, but that’s what he planned to find out.
113. Three tall men in long cloaks stand over a broken body. One spits. Two piss.
114. I stare at my hands and genuinely wonder what to do. My right closes around the pencil and I know I’ve made the wrong choice.
115. She felt good standing there, feet bare, pink and searching through the snow for something she lost. “There you are.”
116. He’s walking to a cafe he’s never seen to meet a girl he’s only met once. I could get used to this, he thinks among foreign signs.
117. “It wasn’t me,” said the boy who lit the match. “Save it for the judge,” accused the officer who couldn’t quit smoking.
118. Twilight dances upon his features, gently defining them to the stars above. ‘You can’t touch me,’ he says to those heavenly eyes.
119. Everything was structured then; have a bath, go to the living room for cookies and milk and television, then sleep. Always sleep.
120. The warm touch of the evening rains itself on me as a thousand suns die in the distance. I watch the world from my protective box.
Past Decades:
a field of crowns 