I've been told by quite a few people, that I'm way too insecure. That I should be more confident, more stable in my thoughts and in my actions. I know that they're right. I know that I'm very wobbly when it comes to self-confidence, that I'm extremely self-conscious. I care what others think about me, what impressions they have of me, what my actions mean to them. It's stupid of me to think so, but I set store by such things. I make my own decisions, and they are not influenced by what image I think I'm projecting to the world. NO.
But I do care what others think of it. I care what others make of my behaviour and what opinion they have formed about me. Almost all the people I met are free from such shackles. They don't care. It's their life, whatever they do with it, it's their business. They don't care about what others think.
And all those people who said that to me, who advised me to stop thinking so much, to live my life without thinking about others, these people have unknowingly contributed to the recent decline in my self-esteem. If it had not been for those quiet moments that one shares with his own self, where there is no voice but your own, where nobody is there to nag you and judge you except you, I would have been lost. I don't know when I realized this, it might have been somewhere along the way when I tried to stop caring about others' opinions. It came to me suddenly, as if I'd known all along.
I'm an artist, and proud of it. Not the arrogant pride that most of my peers seem to have, but genuine heart-felt pride at myself. For being someone who creates art. Who weaves a portrait(however clumsy) out of a blank piece of paper, who composes poems that never existed, who gives life to still words. I am sure that anyone who has ever held a pencil or a pen or an instrument of art will relate with me. Insecurity, it's an occupational hazard. We make a living out of it. We are insecure because we're baring a piece of our soul to the world, not knowing what reaction it may produce, what recesses it may stir. And an artist's work is always a private affair.
It is visible to the public in its final form, complete. But what has happened before, from a blank piece of paper to the dance of colours on the canvas, that is known only by the artist. The struggle, the doubt, the frustration, feeling totally useless and helpless. These things are not known to them. And that is why I always feel let down, whenever somebody comments,'Hmmm... nice' on my work.
Bah, I'm not insecure. I'm an artist.
But I do care what others think of it. I care what others make of my behaviour and what opinion they have formed about me. Almost all the people I met are free from such shackles. They don't care. It's their life, whatever they do with it, it's their business. They don't care about what others think.
And all those people who said that to me, who advised me to stop thinking so much, to live my life without thinking about others, these people have unknowingly contributed to the recent decline in my self-esteem. If it had not been for those quiet moments that one shares with his own self, where there is no voice but your own, where nobody is there to nag you and judge you except you, I would have been lost. I don't know when I realized this, it might have been somewhere along the way when I tried to stop caring about others' opinions. It came to me suddenly, as if I'd known all along.
I'm an artist, and proud of it. Not the arrogant pride that most of my peers seem to have, but genuine heart-felt pride at myself. For being someone who creates art. Who weaves a portrait(however clumsy) out of a blank piece of paper, who composes poems that never existed, who gives life to still words. I am sure that anyone who has ever held a pencil or a pen or an instrument of art will relate with me. Insecurity, it's an occupational hazard. We make a living out of it. We are insecure because we're baring a piece of our soul to the world, not knowing what reaction it may produce, what recesses it may stir. And an artist's work is always a private affair.
It is visible to the public in its final form, complete. But what has happened before, from a blank piece of paper to the dance of colours on the canvas, that is known only by the artist. The struggle, the doubt, the frustration, feeling totally useless and helpless. These things are not known to them. And that is why I always feel let down, whenever somebody comments,'Hmmm... nice' on my work.
Bah, I'm not insecure. I'm an artist.
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