Is anything I create worth the time and effort it takes to do so? If accolades and compensation are the only way to judge, absolutely not. Yet, still I create. It’s just what I do. When I don’t, it’s as though the life within me dissipates. I become a shell of myself. My dreams spiral into fantasy and confusion. I begin to imagine what could have been and made bitter by it’s promise. I’m crippled by the question, what if. The very thought of my squandered potential grows sour within me. My purpose loses it’s potency. All of my questions become, why me.
Finding all of this to be true I’m now aware that I create because my time feels meaningless should I not. When I reach into my mind and pull forth something beautiful my eyes become brighter. Finding for myself the many jewels that have been planted within me soothes my soul. It would seem life has been stripping away the layers of me that were of no use and leaving only that which is authentic. I am a one of one original and my creator made me to create.
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