On making more (“bad”) art

I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with art.

I adore the sight of it. Whether rough and unfinished or a beautiful completed piece, art of any kind is gorgeous to me. I admire those able to make it, admire the amount of effort and dedication that has gone into their years of practice and their hours invested into a single artwork. Those who can create visually have felt, to me, like a different species all on their own. The Cool Kids at the table.

And that’s where the “hate” factors in, because growing up, the inferiority that brought is honestly ridiculous. I so desperately wanted to be good at art. But because I was raised not to pursue anything I wasn’t immediately good at, and because I was always comparing myself to my peers who likely had more practice in addition to natural talent under their belts, and because that made me feel so, so insecure, I tried to dismiss art entirely.

That’s not for me. I’m the writer. All I can do is words, and shabbily at that. But art? Pfft. I suck.

I even claimed that I hated making it, because for a long time, I did. Making art was stressful because I wanted to be “good,” but could obviously see I was “bad.” I’d feel frustrated when lines wouldn’t go the way I wanted them to, when clay wouldn’t mold itself the way I needed it to, when I couldn’t understand the concept of shading or how to get my pencil to press just right. Especially because it seemed like I was the only one struggling— my friends and classmates seemed to have a natural affinity that I just didn’t have.

So to protect my fragile little ego, I pretended that I sucked by choice. I pretended I just wasn’t interested, so I wasn’t trying as hard as I could. And then I stopped trying as hard as I could, because I didn’t want anyone to see how much it mattered. If I didn’t try as hard, then I could claim that my art was bad because I didn’t put in the effort to make it good, when really, I was just afraid of trying my best and it still turning out like crap. And if I did try my best, I would continually put the art down myself. “Yes, I know it sucks. I’ve actually embraced the fact that I will always suck at art. You don’t have to say it because I’m saying it first!”

The mental gymnastics makes me laugh. I still fall prey to it, especially when it involves doing things in front of people. But it also makes me sad, because it means I’ve closed off an outlet to myself for years because of being scared.

It’s not just visual art. I could claim the same for singing, for dancing, for music, for sports, for anything artistic or competitive that meant having to expose myself to failure or being bad in some way. When your whole life you’re taught that if you’re not good at something, there’s no point pursuing it, you start to shape the things you love to do around only the things you’re immediately “good at,” and really, how many such things are out there?

Everyone starts off being bad at something they’re trying for the first time. Logically, I know this. I just haven’t felt safe enough to be bad at anything in a long time.

I’m trying to change that, now. Starting small. Starting with art. Random doodles, little bits of digital art or maybe even actual drawings and paintings, who knows?

It’s been an interesting process. Trying to turn off the judgmental voice in my head. Trying to just embrace the feeling of making something, even if – perhaps especially if – that something isn’t anywhere near “good.”

This is my first big step towards vulnerability: sharing the art I make publicly and admitting that I’ve actually worked quite hard on all of them. Maybe not as hard as I could have – there’s still a lot I’m learning and I also just enjoy being “fast and loose” with some pieces – but hard enough to say yeah, it matters to me.

Here’s one from a couple of days ago:

This one was roughly following a YouTube tutorial by Calvin at DrifterStudio. The difference is stark, because I’m using a completely different app – the free version, at that – with different brushes, and because I was just trying it out. I had planned to then do another version where I put a lot more effort in, but ended up liking the rough, childish look to this. Go figure.

I’ve also now created a gallery page – appropriately named Any/Every Doodle – with some more little bits, and will add to it over time.

I still suck, but I’m okay with it. I’ll get better. Art and I are testing things out, taking things slow. So check out the silliness, but do be kind.

Three Words, Eight Letters

Apr 12th, 2013 5:29:13pm

Words are strange, fickle things. They’re a lot like people that way. They have the power to hurt and to heal, to hide and to reveal, to break and to mend, to create and to destroy. They can become hollow from overuse, from repetition, from lies. Or said by the right person they can be and mean everything. And just like people, the marks left by words are often not visible.

There are many things that I say too much. Things I repeat again and again because I sometimes feel they’re constantly forgotten, or disregarded as folly. Sometimes, it’s because I have no idea what else to say. Mostly, though, I repeat things because I feel they need to be heard, and why try to say it differently when this particular phrasing says it so well? But it often scares me, the thought that maybe I repeat things because there’s no more to me than that. That perhaps those words make up my entire being in a nutshell, and that I do not evolve, do not advance, do not learn. That one day, all I’ll essentially be is a broken record, constantly left behind because who ever wants to hear the same things over and over again? They lose their value, when spoken long enough, do they not?

There are many things that I say too much. “I love you” used to be one of them. People don’t realise how driven I am by love. And when they do, it scares them, so they pretend not to notice. I guess I love too much, and perhaps too openly, and it’s hard for me to understand why everyone craves acceptance, understanding, unconditional love, yet run away from it when offered, unable to believe its existence to be more than a dream, unable to grasp the fact that it’s here to stay. It’s hard for me to get that. But then… I do get it. I get it more than I give myself credit for, because hey, I’m actually the same.
Hypocritical or self-deluded or both, you tell me. And so before (or maybe I was too late, I know not) the words “I love you” became hollow, draining, too terrifying to bear, more a burden than a comfort, I stopped saying it as much.

At least, not in words.

If you look closely enough, however, you’ll see it. Hidden in my greetings and my goodbyes. In the way I smile at you. In the way I’ll poke fun but then apologise profusely if I think I’ve taken it even a smidgen too far. In my offers of help, my pathetic words of comfort, my attempts at encouragement, my random phone calls or messages or links.
It’s there, my friends. In everything I do. With me always hoping that you see it. That you understand its presence. That I’m leaving my mark, a good mark, even if it’s not visible, and will never be to me.

Hello. (I love you.)

Asking if you’re okay. (I love you.)

Listening to you speak, no matter the topic, as I smile and nod and urge you to continue in my own little ways, paying closer attention than you might think. (I love you.)

Helping with something. Trying to cheer you up. Distracting you without prying. Letting you rant. Walking on the outside of the pavement, just in case. Offering whatever I can, like my jacket when you’re cold. (I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.)

Remembering little things about you and showing you that I remember, when the circumstance arises.  (I love you.)

Goodbye. (And I love you.)

P.S: And to all you strangers, to all you fighting your battles with the world and yourselves, trying to find happiness or struggling to survive…

To all you beautiful, incredible people:

I love you all, too.

Thud Thud Thud Goes the Slack Drum~

Jul 23rd, 2011 2:13:00am

“There is no escaping reason; no denying purpose. Because as we both know, without purpose, we would not exist. It is purpose that created us. Purpose that connects us. Purpose that pulls us. That guides us. That drives us. It is purpose that defines us. Purpose that binds us.” Agent Smith | The Matrix Reloaded

A fine quote from a fine movie, which has the added advantage of being completely and utterly true. Without purpose, we wander aimlessly and listlessly in this world. Our passions are as short-lived as the effects of a drug: a temporary high before returning to a reality of… what? Short-lived because while it is a discovery of something new, once we realise it isn’t really for us we give it up and continue our search for… what?

Purpose. Something to live for. To work towards. A goal to achieve, a way of life to adopt. Something that brings up challenges everyday, challenges we relish in, because we know it is all worth it, because we enjoy the thrill of knowing that getting through it is one step closer to getting what we want. Our purpose – our true purpose – stays with us all our life. It is not a mere phase, a stage to get through. It is what we were made to do. Everything before then is passing the time until you figure out what that is. There’s nothing after.

One’s purpose sticks, forever. You are born with it, you lose it, forget it as you grow, and if you’re lucky, you remember once more later and fulfill it for as long as you live. You die with no regrets, knowing that you found out what you were here for and you went for it, day after day. You gave it your all.

Then there’s the everyday “To-Do List”. There are few people in this world who are satisfied with simply doing nothing. We must be moving, working, playing… We must ACT or else we wither away with boredom and the feeling that we are wasting precious time. As humans with limitless energy, we don’t do well with nowhere to channel it and nothing to distract ourselves with. We just get so darn… BORED. Our thoughts drift in and out… We feel useless. Like there’s something we need to be out there doing but since we don’t know what it is we just lay here, doing no more than existing. What of the plans we need to make, implement, be ready for? What of the goals we need to achieve or – on a smaller scale – the errands we need to run? That important project due soon, the book we need to read, the movie we want to watch… It goes on and on. The world is absolutely saturated with the different things to do, that are being done, that need to be done… We need to stay occupied, and the world is just filled with ways to do exactly that. To give us something to work towards, even if just for a short time. Something to complete.

It’s one of those never-ending cycles that runs rampant in society. We do things, look for things, create things, play with things, achieve things, and as soon as we’re done and the high of it has worn off, we move on to the next thing to do, look for, create, play with, achieve. We are always wandering, searching for that one thing that we can stick to and never tire of, getting other things done in the meantime so we can feel important, that our existence means something, is contributing something to the world. So that we don’t get squashed and suffocated with the realisation of just how small we truly are. We are like sharks: we need to keep moving, else we die (or feel dead).

In many ways, it’s wonderful. Our desire to make something of our lives has propelled us to amazing heights. Unimaginable heights deemed impossible not-so-many years ago. However, we all crave movement so badly that we’ve forgotten the peace and beauty of stillness. To lay in the sun, nothing pending, no distractions, feeling the breeze upon your face and listening to nothing but the rustling of leaves and the chirping of birds. To climb up to a building rooftop at night and simply gaze at the stars. To appreciate the laughter of a child, hear the poignancy of silence. To lie in bed with the company of your own thoughts, or a loved one breathing softly next to you.

It’s all about balance, I feel. Without purpose… Well, Sylvia Plath put it best: ”If I sit still and don’t do anything, the world goes on beating like a slack drum, without meaning. We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine.”

…Just don’t forget that there still is beauty and peace in being still, too.

It Starts with One.

Jan 19th, 2011 9:40:00pm

One thought. That thought gives rise to another, and another, and another. On on and on, until you finally stop and wonder, “How did I get here?” Most often, or probably always, that first thought is completely unrelated to where you ended up, except through the series of connected thoughts that got you there. With me so far?

Who’s heard of the Six Degrees of Separation theory? I have always loved it. I find it fascinating. The possibility that any two people anywhere in the world, can be connected through six people or less. Imagine it. Six billion people in the world, and you could reach out to any of them through just six. Of course, it all depends on choosing the right first “degree”.

“It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly’s wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.” – Chaos Theory

That is a famous line, that is. Almost everyone’s heard of it. But has anyone thought of just how much it means? The implications? One word, one action, one decision. That’s all it takes to change… Everything. Anything. It shapes the rest of your life, until another decision alters it, and then another.

That’s how life works. You don’t know what’s ever going to happen because there are so many possibilities that open up with so much as the flexing of your little finger, ever changing with every movement, every moment. It’s mind boggling, but also, in its way, rather beautiful, while additionally being completely and utterly terrifying.

We are all connected. Every one of us. You can try denying it but honestly? There is no denying it at all. We live in one world, in one universe, under one collective consciousness that we may only be truly aware of in the deepest parts of our subconscious. And through that connection, our actions shape our world. Everything has consequence. Everything has a cause and effect, a reaction. It all lies in the choices you make.

Scary, isn’t it? This knowledge comes with such unbelievable responsibility, doesn’t it?
Think of it this way, though. You can’t ever say that you can’t make a difference. Anyone can make a difference. All they have to do is act. To try. Even if you don’t see the change you wished to create in your lifetime, at least know that you set the ball in motion. Your deeds have set a chain reaction in the world, and within our collective consciousness, and the world will never be the same again.

One thought. One decision. One action. It starts with one.

Make it the right one.


Mar 24th, 2012 7:03:00pm

The following is an extract from the book Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury. It is what provided the inspiration for this particular column and may resound within you almost as much as it did within myself.

“…Now, look, since when did you think being good meant being happy?”

“Since always.”

“Since now learn otherwise. Sometimes the man who looks happiest in town, with the biggest smiles, is the one carrying the biggest load of sin. There are smiles and smiles; learn to tell the dark variety from the light. The seal-barker, the laugh-shouter, half the time he’s covering up. He’s had his fun and he’s guilty. And men do love sin, Will, oh how they love it, never doubt, in all shapes, sizes, colors and smells. Times come when troughs, not tables, suit our appetites. Hear a man too loudly praising others, and look to wonder if he didn’t just get up from the sty. On the other hand, that unhappy, pale, put-upon man walking by, who looks all guilt and sin, why, often that’s your good man with a capital G, Will. For being good is a fearful occupation; men strain at it and sometimes break in two. I’ve known a few. You work twice as hard to be a farmer as to be his hog. I suppose it’s thinking about trying to be good makes the crack run up the wall one night. A man with high standards, too, the least hair falls on him and sometimes wilts his spine. He can’t let himself alone, won’t lift himself off the hook if he falls just a breath from grace.

“Oh, it would be lovely if you could just be fine, act fine, not think of it all the time. But it’s hard, right? with the last piece of lemon cake waiting in the icebox, middle of the night, not yours, but you lie awake in a hot sweat for it, eh? do I need tell you? Or, a hot spring day, noon, and there you are chained to your school desk and away off there goes the river, cool and fresh over the rock-fall. Boys can hear clear water like that miles away. So, minute by minute, hour by hour, a lifetime, it never ends, never stops, you got the choice this second, now this next, and the next after that, be good, be bad, that’s what the clock ticks, that’s what it says in the ticks. Run swim, or stay hot, run eat or lie hungry. So you stay, but once stayed, Will, you know the secret, don’t you? don’t think of the river again. Or the cake. Because if you do, you’ll go crazy. Add up all the rivers never swum in, cakes never eaten, and by the time you get my age, Will, it’s a lot missed out on. But then you console yourself, thinking, the more times in, the more times possibly drowned, or choked on lemon frosting. But then, through play dumb cowardice, I guess, maybe you hold off from too much, wait, play it safe.

“Look at me: married at thirty-nine, Will, thirty-nine! But I was so busy wrestling myself two falls out of three, I figured I couldn’t marry until I had licked myself good and forever. Too late, I found you can’t wait to become perfect, you got to go out and fall down and get up with everybody else…”


Who doesn’t relate to this at some point or another? The struggle between being good and being bad. The temptation that lies in the promise of a thrill, a high, instant gratification as opposed to deprivation and the knowledge you did the right thing. Knowledge that – whether you choose to admit it or not – most often offers little comfort. After all, we are creatures of want, and we want it now. We seek comfort, happiness, good feelings, short as we may know they’ll last.

Rules. Rules. Rules. Rebellion. Rebellion. Rebellion. What will you choose? Why? When? Just once, or over and over again? Temptation licking its lips at the promise of another victim. But are you a victim or a willing participant? Do you choose to eat the cake or lay in a hot sweat, reminding yourself, “It’s not yours”?

Then, the greater question. Does eating it really make you bad? One slice. When is doing the wrong thing actually the right thing? We all know (unless you’re a hermit) that some rules are more for control and out of fear than for the betterment of mankind. We also know that sometimes, a little risk, a little bit of being “bad”, might end up being the best time you’ve ever had. A memory to last your entire lifetime. Or it may end up being a horrible mistake you regret. Then again, don’t people say that one’s greatest regrets are the things you didn’t do, try, experience?

Is there a line between it all? Because I still haven’t found it. Or perhaps my over-thinking it has made the line blurred beyond recognition. Maybe you’re meant to go with your gut instinct on these things. Then again, how do you tell the difference between instinct, base recklessness, and fear?

It gets so very tiring to be good all the time. The reliable one. The trustworthy one. The one you roll your eyes at the thought of them ever doing anything “bad”. Temptation is a beast that never tires, never surrenders, and can worm its way into every aspect of life. The longer one fights it, it seems, the stronger it gets, and the more exhausted and frustrated you get. The downward spiral is scary. There’s always the fear that giving in to Temptation once makes you more vulnerable to attack another time. It does, really, especially if trying something that’s known to be addictive. Once you’ve had a taste, just a taste… You find yourself longing for more.

What is right and what is easy? Why can’t the right thing be easy for once? Why is it that our “dark” side feels more dominant than our light? The eternal battle. How do you know which side to give in to in what situation? There is always risk, yes, but how do you figure out what is worth that risk and what isn’t?

Perhaps there is no clear cut answer. Maybe there really isn’t a line. Simply grey areas that everyone has to find on their own, depending on their own personalities, their own lives, their own beasts of Temptation.

Magical Pages

Aug 20th, 2010 1:56:00am

I love to read. It’s one of my most favourite things to do. No, scratch that. It is my most favourite thing to do. The beauty of the written word, its power and ability to change lives, to create, to destroy, to bring to life and surface things one would not have been able to imagine otherwise; it’s a remarkable thing. Words have impact.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.”

I hate that line. Words do hurt. They can stab you where you least expect it. They have a greater effect than the originator of that line could have possibly imagined. Words can discourage and demolish, just as they can inspire and motivate.

Books are my source of pleasure. In them is where I seek those glorious words I have so much respect and admiration for. Books are where I find my escape.

That is why it saddens me, seeing all the new software for reading books digitally. Actually no, not reading books digitally, simply: reading digitally. I don’t consider a book a book, unless you can feel it, see it, smell it, turn its pages, open it with excitement and anticipation, and close it regretfully when it is over.

There are advantages to the software, yes. No need to carry a heavy weight. Cheaper because money that would otherwise be spent on printing and cover designing and illustrations is saved. Hey, no paper cuts! No fire hazards. No wastage of paper either therefore making it a greener option.

But is it really a wastage of paper? Is the excitement of holding a book in your hands, either a fresh copy or one that’s in tatters from being read so often because of words that comfort you in their familiarity, no matter how much things have changed around you, is it really to be replaced with what would be to me a duller version of the feeling when you download something new to read?

To me, books aren’t a heavy weight or a paper-cut risk. They are real. You can run your fingers over the printed words, that slight scratch beneath your fingertips: the unique feel of paper. You can gaze at beautiful covers, while deciding whether or not to begin or continue, or to save the pleasure for a later time. You can take them down from your bookshelf and dust them off years later, to read to your friends, or children, or grandchildren your favourite lines.

They are comforting, books are.

There is comfort in opening a book. It’s like opening a door to a new place. You don’t know exactly what you’re going to find, but you’re eager to find out. And as you turn each page, sinking further into what you’re reading, all you see is what the writer has laid out for you. The lightness of the page and the darkness of the printed word are easily a front. A disguise. Hiding beneath it a glorious world of opportunity, of history, of tales of old and the creativity of the new. I don’t feel that reading from a laptop. The glare of the monitor and the sheer… coldness, interfere, reminding me that I am here, in the real world, sitting at my laptop reading things that could never be or already have been and shall not be again.

There is comfort in closing a book at the finish. A sadness, yes, for you feel almost like you’ve lost a friend, as the saying goes. However, there is the comfort in the finality. You know it’s over and now you are free to think, to ponder over what you’ve read as the back cover stares up at you, confirming its ending.

Books are warm. They are tender portals into all new planes, taking you gently by the hand and leading you down endless paths. They trap memories within their pages, so that every time you open that one book you’re taken back to the feelings and places you were at the time you first read it.

Technology has taken over a lot of things. It has made things easier and cheaper on one front, and harder and more expensive on another, but it has taken over. I just hope it doesn’t take over this as well, despite showing signs of it.

I truly believe it could never match up to all those feelings a lovely printed manuscript, with beautiful jackets that enclose magical pages, provokes.

Stream of Consciousness…

[Original post date unknown]

“It’s funny how things change.”

A cliche statement, but only because of how often it is used. One situation, status, quickly morphing into something completely unlike itself. It happens all too often, proving that Life, Fate, Circumstance… they are the true masters of happenings.

Do they toss a coin? Close their eyes and point?

No. Can’t be. Far too cunning. Far too much irony. Too much.. everything, for it to be a random thing, left to their friend: Chance.

They like spontaneity. Being unpredictable. Though sometimes they give clues to prepare you for what they have in store. Chance plays her part well, here. It is her element. Deciding whether or not you spot them.

They play carefully, strike suddenly. For the better here, for the worse there.

A game? No.

An art? Perhaps.

And undeniable fact. A truth that cannot be ignored. That is the true nature of this.

Change. Funny how it happens.

Funny how things change.

But not funny at all.

It is, after all, the only constant. It happens too often.

With cruelty. With kindness.

Alternating. Coming in all at once.

Good with bad. With more good.

So many possibilities. A choice you make and their plan alters instantly.

Funny? Not funny.

Beautiful. All kinds.

Even while lamenting now, in the end, when it’s over, when every feeling has been disconnected and discarded, it is seen, in it’s truest form. Beautiful. 
It passes. It all passes.
 When you have overcome. Seen your strength. Your power. Beautiful.
When you make the choices that trigger their kindness. Beautiful.
When, at the end of it, you finally know who you are: Beautiful.

Yet still we say: “Funny how things change.”

No. Breathe. Breathe and whisper, “I am where I am meant to be. It shall pass.”

Change. Funny.

This was written on a whim. Straight from my thoughts, not a single word changed or rephrased. Although the paragraphing has been, as it was originally written line by line. I don’t know where it came from, but here it is.

Learning Experience

Sep 5th, 2010 1:26:00am

A few days ago, I was being yelled at by my little sister. (Yes, little sister. I am older and therefore not allowed to retaliate.) This is a common occurrence at home. We don’t exactly get along for the most part. On this particular occasion, she was yelling because she had washed several dishes – almost all, in fact – which is my job, and I hadn’t expressed a single word or look of gratitude.

I admit that at the time I wasn’t grateful. I was annoyed.  See, I am a “just-so” type of person, meaning I have a system of how I do things, and like to have them “just-so” (I bet you saw that coming). Besides, she had never washed dishes before, so I was sure she wouldn’t have washed them properly and I’d have to do them again anyways. I would have rather done it myself in the first place.

That got me thinking. How many of you prefer not letting anyone try something, simply because “you’d rather do it yourself”? How many of you don’t like giving someone a chance to attempt anything, because it was that someone’s first try and you thought they would make mistakes you would have to fix? I bet there’s loads of you, like me, who would be more annoyed than grateful. So, how many of you are getting in the way of someone’s learning experience?

Humans are such contradictory beings. We all know that part of learning is making mistakes, and that you never know if you don’t try, and that it’s good to attempt something new and different. Yet, when it comes right down to it, we are hesitant to allow it, because of that same knowledge: mistakes happen. And we don’t want to deal with them, even if it means that a person is going to benefit by learning something.
We confuse, delude and contradict other people and ourselves constantly. This being one of the several cases in which we do. What is so wrong about making honest mistakes?

Why is it so hard for us to let go enough to let others just… try? Even if it’s something as small as washing a few plates and cups? Why is it so hard to let people screw up, even it means you’d have to help clean up the mess?  If they gain something from it… experience, knowledge… then shouldn’t that be worth the trouble? They don’t even always make mistakes. Sometimes they find something they’re good at. Something they can easily do, and do well.

I wonder how many others have been kept from learning something, or were too afraid to try because of the response they would get. It makes me sad, knowing that there are probably so, so many. Because of our own hypocrisy. Because we didn’t give them the chance, and derided and refused them when they asked for one.

I realised all this while my sister slept. When she woke up, I thanked her. And in my heart, I apologised for being annoyed at what was simply a learning experience.

Oh and for the record: she did wash them properly.


Aug 25th, 2010 1:45:00am

This is [WordPress]. Over one billion posts by people from all walks of life. Some people blog purely to share the beautiful things they find. Some people blog for publicity (yes, we have celebrities on here too, although I’m sure they’re not all just doing it for that).

Some people blog to unleash their creativity upon the masses, hoping that someone out there will appreciate their work. And then, there are the people who blog for themselves. Who use [WP] as a journal for their thoughts, their feelings and their experiences. Things they want to let out.

I’ve heard people scoff and say, when for example they ask someone for their blog link, “If you don’t want people to read it then why are you posting it all over the internet for the world to see?”

The fact is it’s the people who are actually in our lives, people who we either don’t want them to know about our experiences, or are actually involved in them, they’re the ones we don’t want to read it. It’s a sort of relief, sharing a bit of yourself to complete strangers. They can’t judge you (although many, many will, unfortunately) because they don’t know you. They can’t force their own beliefs and judgements and opinions upon you, because they’re not in your lives, so their effect is limited. I’m not underestimating the power of words, but still. Being judged online by a complete stranger is different being judged by someone who is actually involved in your life.

There are so many people in the world. And it’s comforting sharing it with someone who can maybe relate to it, maybe offer a perspective the people in our lives can’t, maybe discover that they’re not as alone as they thought.  There’s also a sort of freedom. It’s like it’s now out there and it isn’t gnawing at you anymore, and you can breathe easier knowing that no matter what, it’s out there now. You can delete it anytime you want, but for now, it’s released.

I had a personal blog once. I deleted it ages ago, for several reasons, but I still remember that feeling of relief once I got things off my chest and just tossed it out for the world (okay, my followers, none of whom I had known in real life) to see. It was wonderful. It was therapy.

Here’s the opposite. It’s slightly masochistic, I suppose, but also comforting in a way. Holding back and keeping quiet. Not only because you don’t know how to word it in the first place, but because it’s familiar in its safety. No one knows. It’s like your little secret, hidden and only explored at the times where there’s no activity to distract you, outwardly appearing to be staring at the ceiling, while poking and prodding and pondering and wondering on the inside. It’s almost fun, seeing how far you can go before you snap and tell someone, do something, say something, release it, share it.

How many of you have done this? Either before getting a blog, or still, now, today, this very moment perhaps, clutching to your heart something you can’t bring yourself to release, either not knowing what it is, or knowing and keeping it close regardless? A dark secret that keeps you up at night, maybe, or a feeling you just can’t describe? Something you want to speak out loud, but just can’t? I’d like to know. What are you not saying?

Your secret’s safe with me.

What makes a manager’s job more important than a janitor’s?

Why do people who go to work in the comfort of offices look down on people who have to work outside no matter the weather?

What is it about people working in the service industry that gives you the right to treat them like crap?

What is it that makes one person’s job superior to someone else’s? Is it because they get paid better? Because their job is considered ‘important’ in society?

Let me ask you. If no one ever collected the garbage because they were busy working in jobs you consider to be better, wouldn’t your bins be overflowing pretty fast?

If there were no construction workers, wouldn’t there be severe shortage of housing?
No plumbers? What would happen if your sink got clogged or your toilet overflowed?
What if there were no janitors or maids to clean up your messes? Buildings and schools would get pretty dirty, wouldn’t they?

No gardeners? Weeds, ugly, un-mowed lawns.

No secretaries? More workload for you because you have to keep all your paperwork in order, answer every call including the ones you’d want to avoid.

I find it strange how one line of work is considered demeaning while another is considered ‘high-profile.’

People from every stature and every line of work are necessary for our lives to function properly, easily. Without one, the other suffers. Just because they’re paid less, that doesn’t mean they work less hard than you or that you’re above them in any way. Most times, in fact probably all of the time, they are the ones who work the hardest, in the muck and grime no one else is willing to handle and dealing with people who think they’re better than them.

So next time you think to jibe at someone who’s job seems ‘low’, think of what it would be like if they weren’t out there doing it.

And appreciate them instead of looking at them like they’re the dirt beneath your shoes.