Thoughts on potential.

I once wrote this fairytale about a princess who couldn't speak. A small bird lived in her throat and whistled for her instead. But she was sad, all of the time. Then a prince came. I had her rescue him because I like the idea of reciprocation better than a damsel in distress. He could rescue her later. And he did. There was lots of piano music and white dresses and white horses and sand in the story. I really liked it. It was something new for me. Something I'd always wanted to try but never had till then. I even painted the pictures for it.
My older sister has that story. I assume it's tucked away in a shelf or a box and maybe she gets it out sometimes. Maybe she doesn't. But it exists. There's something about that simple fact. That story exists.

Potential has always frightened me. I never thought I had it. I promise. Sometimes I still disbelieve that I do. If you were in my head, you'd understand why. I always compare myself to a bird. But the truth is, inside of my mind is where the bird is. Rather, the birds. Hundreds of them. Flitting about in annoying and extremely distracting fashions and whistling millions of different songs. They never sing together.
It's hard for me to put it into words. Believing in yourself is possibly the most difficult things, because you of all people know your faults and flaws and struggles. You of all people can see your mistakes and discard what you've done without a thought. You're merciless.
Also though, you of all people know your potential.

I want to finish something. More than that though I think. I want to show someone something. Someone who doesn't know me. Someone who might hate what I do. Or love it.
I'm working on something new. I think it's going to be good. I'll criticize it of course. Maybe even dislike parts of it. A word here and there. A line in a painting. The flow. Transitions. Abruptness. It's difficult to like every part of something you do. But I think it's going to be good.
It has a fox named 'Childer' and two girls named 'Seraphim' and 'Ella.' It has a red toy piano. It has wheat fields and wintertime and leather books and tea and jackets with holes in the elbows. It has an underlying theme of love and safety and adventure. It has a compass I think, not yet, but at least I think. It has a brother and sisters. It has a beginning and an end.
It is being born into existence.
I think it has potential.