[31] my room is an archive
I always have problems with finishing something. Let it be books, projects, foods and thoughts. I trailed off. When things get tough, it gets frustrating and boring. It gets less exciting and my mind is desperate for a new dopamine release. It can be a gallery of trying or a perpetual realization of being half-ass at doing something. Both truths exist at the same time. Sometimes I pick it up, sometimes I don't. But none are wasted.
I don't dnf my books, no matter how difficult or boring they are. For me to understand and appreciate good things, I need to sit and digest the bad things. So I have a few half-read books that I will finish one day. I have time as long as I don't rush it.
Last week I finished making a makeup pouch that I abandoned for months. I took it during my latest vacation and I loved it. Although I had seen the fabric in my craft box months before, it was a week since my vacation and I just said, yeah, it's time. I sew everything by hand and completed it in two days.
I read my old writing stored on my laptop from 2013, the usual cringey fan fiction or raw drafts that I don't remember writing. Some quotes that felt too deep for a 15-year-old or notes on my rabbithole obsession on some 2d guys as if they existed. I can't have that moment again, being creative without fear of being perceived. Now I hesitate more. I edit myself. I try to sound smart and refined, although it backfires sometimes. But even with this pressure, I still create something. I still try to emulate those old bravery and freedoms that never come back because I care.
My projects don't have to have an ending, or even a closure. Many of them are open to being polished, revised, changed, pondered- because I care about it. Every single one of them.
my room is an archive,
reesa