“Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated.” – Confucius

The best way to waste a life, I have found, is by trying really hard to please everyone. This is how I have been living the last 19 years of my life. Ever since I was 7 years old I strived to please everyone: my teachers, my grandmother, my peers, my bosses, my Facebook friends (who, really, are not real friends). In this quest of trying to please others I not only wasted my life, but I lost who I am, or was, for that matter.

compass
If you are lost authenticity can be a compass

The reason I am writing this post is because I always wanted to write in some capacity. However, before I could ever begin I would be beaten down by thoughts of rejection.  It was a bad psychic experience. The moment my fingers made contact with the board, I would hear my college boyfriend telling me to not even think about being a writer. Darkened memories of his voice would fill my head, “I cannot read this! There is no flow, and the grammar is horrible. Let me see the assignment so I can fix this for you,” dubbed over by, “No, a memory isn’t a special place, write about a physical place, if you have too, make something up.” After the voices ended, My old English professor’s face would flash in front of my eyes. He would be looking down at me, his smug eyes filled with delight from ripping apart my abstract in front of the class. My fingers would jump off the keys in an attempt to break connection with the haunted object.

ouija
My computer keyboard is almost as spooky as a spirit board.

Unlike most days where I would quit right there and move onto watching Netflix, today I decided to take a break and come back, to give this writing thing a second chance. I headed into my kitchen to grab a soda. Once I entered the kitchen I saw my dog Sophie playing. I’ve seen her playing hundreds of times. But this time was unique. As I watched her hurl her face, tongue out, mouth gapping open, I realized that she did not give a shit. She did not give a shit about her appearance. She did not give a shit about what I thought about her. All she cared about was that moment, the air under her feet, the moisture dripping off her tongue, the excitement of tearing into a rubber bone, all that mattered was her and the fun that she was having. This is the moment a dog taught me a lesson. All that should matter is that I be authentic. If I could accept myself and my flaws I could let go. I could write. Yes, I probably would suck and my grammar would probably be shit. But I would be writing, I would be expressing, I would be having fun.

Sophie Sleeping
The dog with infinite wisdom.

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