To All The Projects I’ve Loved Before
This post is dedicated to all the projects I’ve loved before *cue Usher “Superstar*
“This is for you, you, my number one…”
Yep, now that’s stuck in my head.
First of all, I want to say—I’m sorry. Roses in hand, a tear in my eye, and weak-kneed, here I am. I was young, full of hope, vitamins and minerals, and ambition when we met. I remember it like it was yesterday. Quickly whipping out my phone to get the idea safely logged into my notes, grabbing my journal or even my sketch book, texting my Mom, tapping my husband on the shoulder out of his sleep with the surprise of a new idea. The squeal in my voice as I gushed about what we would be. Do you remember?
But then life happened. Low iron. Perimenopause. Kids. Complacency. Hunger (the “I’m just gonna have a little snacky-snack” kind). My abysmal handwriting, rendering our love affair mere scribbles on the page, the likes of which I cannot decode. Or some other bullsh*t I can’t account for.. But I loved you. I still love you. That’s the truth.
First sight.
Love.
Creativity? Inspiration? That part’s never been missing. But execution? Eh.
Let’s just say I’ve always had more heart than hustle. More ideas than action. I’m a dreamer, baby, not always a doer.
You’ve heard of impostor syndrome, right? Well, I’ve been in a long-term situationship with it. I’ve done some cool things in my life. I would love to do more, but the question “what am I actually doing?” runs laps around my head. Who am I to dare, dream, or wonder? And failure? Real or imagined - haunts me in a way that would make Ebenezer Scrooge feel like he had three homeboys in his house. Because for every journal filled with poetic longing, there are five more full of half-started projects: a makeup convention I dreamed up years before as an ode to love for eyebrows, screenplays that will never see Sundance, the rhymes that I call “poetry” so as not to embarrass my children. Bars? Is that you back there? * blows kiss*
A book I started writing between marriages. The title? Pretty, Young, Fat...a real zinger! One chapter is called “Thick Thighs and Sex Lives”.
So many projects. So many plans. So much… not finishing.
Is it because I’m a Virgo? Beyonce’ would beg to differ. A perfectionist? Afraid? Overwhelmed? Possibly all of the above.
I don’t even know. I know it seems like I am the love ‘em and leave ‘em type. Nothing could be further from the truth. Here I am, on your doorstep, right?
You were the love children of my wild, chaotic, beautiful mind. You were odes to the world as I see it—messy, meaningful, and full of potential. You helped me grow. Whether you lived on a page, a canvas, or just in the quiet corners of my mind, you mattered.
Here’s what I know and you may not: this brain of mine never stops. At night, when sleep evades me yet again, I’m full of ideas that may never be born. I see you looking at the projects that came to life. They are no more important to me than you’ve been. Sometimes I pick the project that makes me feel joy. Sometimes I pick the one that might pay the bills. Sometimes I pick the one that asks the least of me, because honestly, I’m tired. No sleep…remember? And sometimes I pick nothing. And I just dream.
And in my dreams - awake or with my eyes closed - you’re always there.
But you needed nurture. You needed my time. You needed me to have a clear schedule and focus, and maybe even money. I see your face. Yeah, I DEFINITELY needed money. They told me you needed a support system. You needed me to have followers. Proof of concept. They even said you needed me to have guts.
Guts? Wow.That actually stings.
*sigh*
I tend to bite off more than I can chew. I’m all over the place most days. Others, I sit at the table of my feigned ambition, surrounded by half-eaten dreams and soggy ideas. Some call it ADHD. Some call it burnout. Some call it Tuesday. But one thing you shouldn’t call it is abandonment.
I know we never really broke up. And hey, maybe this isn’t even goodbye. Perhaps it’s just not now. I just wasn’t ready the first time you walked into my mind. Perhaps I was scared. Maybe I just needed a creative one-night stand. And okay, perhaps that wasn’t fair to you, but Boiiii we had A TIME! I still feel twinges of guilt from time to time when I reminisce over you. Things unsaid and undone. Maybe we could’ve been great together. But did you want to dance all night with a commitment-phobe like me?
I loved you.
Even if you were just a note scribbled in the margins. Even if you never made it past 419 words. Even if you were nothing more than a whisper of a dream before I fell asleep, you were loved.
Every single one of you carries a little piece of me.
So, thank you for being a part of me, the best part. The part that dares to dream, even when the rest of me wants to run away.
Love always,
Me.