When something doesn’t work out as I imagined, as it was promised or was supposed to be, I don’t get mad at others. I feel sorry for the people I might have involved and who will not be able to harvest the fruit of their labor. My ingrained fear of having done something wrong or humiliating that prevented a success sets in. It eats at me until only one thought remains in my head: Not good enough.
Not good enough to succeed. Not good enough to get noticed. Not good enough to be talked to. Not good enough to be remembered. Not good enough to find love. Not good enough for anything. It comes all together in a neat reign like in Matisse’s Dance if it had been drawn by Bosch.
The thought drowns out everything else. It’s a darkness pushes the tears out of my eyes. It chokes me. It brings with it its own nightmare-ish version of a memory lane, blacker than any spooky house on Halloween.
I might cry until my eyes are empty and my head is split by an ax or at least feels like it. Then the urge returns and I take the pencil back into my hand, because one day will be good enough for it all.