It’s one of those days where even washing my face before bed is a begrudged chore. Everything that lies ahead of me seems insurmountable and everything I’ve done seems insignificant. I can’t even form a thought here without feeling exhausted and irritated with the phantom critic I’m pretending is reading this.
I live with this paradoxical soundtrack that no one gives a shit what I do — rightly so, I’m an ant in this big old ocean of people — and when they do, it’s because of the only trivial instance where we are forced to connect. They’re always there — ready to critic, to stretch, to suspend in the discomfort of their dissatisfaction.
This is the problem with working too much and connecting with the people I love too little. No matter how much I know that my existence and value extends beyond the four edges of a conference call, I begin to define myself by the tasks, projects and deliverables I put out. And I don’t quite love that person. She meets expectations but it stops there. She’s inconsistent. She doesn’t give 100% because she never quite feels like any of those people deserve that much of her energy but, ironically, she lets their interpretation of her eat her alive.
So tonight I got out my paints and finally started painting in the sketch that’s been sitting by my dresser for the past two weeks. I still don’t want to wash my face. I haven’t come to Jesus. I didn’t find myself or the identity I’ve seemed to misplace. I poured my energy into something that isn’t available for a verbal public flogging and I feel just the slightest glimmer of hope that I’m a little more than the picture they’ve painted of me in their minds (and forgot about shortly thereafter).