Self sabotage
Strangely, I have been afraid of my own words. I am afraid of what they might do. What if they do good? And what if they really do good, and I don’t know what to do with that good? What if what is good is worse than what is bad? What if this good, which I have never known, never visited, never experienced, does not exist? And what if, by chance, it does exist, but I have made it bad only because that is all I know? What lives beyond the fence of fear? Will my courage be greater to cross it, or will I make it even higher so that I cannot even glimpse the other side? I don't know what is stronger: a feeling transformed into words or a feeling that cannot be transformed into anything. Maybe that is where art is born. It is the exiled feeling that now returns home in one way or another. Art and tears are the same thing. Purification, cleansing. Every time a feeling is locked away, it grows, and with no place left to go, close to imploding, it comes out in the form of tears because ther...
