I look at the blank paper that lays in front of me. It haunts me
I want to paint, I want to draw and give it life but my fingers don’t obey me.
Thousand thoughts tell me it won’t work. It just won’t happen.
“What would you paint?” they say “it’s not in you. You just simply don’t have it”
Other thoughts are more benevolent
“Come on, give it a try. There’s nothing to lose”
I draw a couple of bees but my perfectionism rejects them. I try again and another gagging creature emerges from the pencil colors.
Everything seems hopeless but then a voice that resembles a soft breeze, whispers:
“Watercolors…you have been wanting to work with watercolors again for long time. You can do it. Just keep going”
I follow the “whisper” and a weight is lifted from me and the colors flow on the paper. Flowers, bees and fantasy make the blank page a magical forest.
Hate to admit it, but I think perfectionism, in my case is not productive but castrating, limiting, repressing and poisonous.
I want to liberate myself from it. I think I deserve to be free. I think we all deserve to be free to be, like the bees.