AHHHHHHHHHH

I will title this as

Art of Screaming into the void

You will realize why both makes sense at the end of it.

I love raw , imperfect ideas , but when I put them out, they have to be perfect.
The strange feeling of thinking of building / finishing that imperfect idea is just too sweet to actually do it.
The Absurdity of all of this is once you actually stick through it and even finish it you would feel a disconnect sort of distant from whatever you did.

Ohhhh baby, this is sweeter than anything you will ever feel, the idea of creating a novel thing, never been done, an idea so real and yours even you think to yourself, how did you come up with that?
Idea is a masterpiece and dogshit until it remains unfinished, it's the Schrodinger's cat.
There’s this scene in Kafka on the Shore where Kafka is stuck in a library, trapped in his own story. That’s what unfinished projects feel like—safe ,limitless, but also suffocating.
Once you finish something, it’s no longer infinite. It’s just one thing.

Starting is easy. Finishing means committing to a version of reality.
Unfinished projects are a defense mechanism: you can’t fail at something that doesn’t exist. You just can not be criticized if it's not out yet.
And it's not the fear of others, do not get me wrong my friend, it's yourself, because once your reality is set, the power to dream infinite goes away and it breaks you down.

Just like in Stranger, how it's about getting detached, that is exactly what happens once the work is done.
How I feel looking at something I finally finish—it’s like a stranger inside of me made it.
I used to think I just lost interest, but maybe it’s because the thing I made is no longer mine in the way an idea is. ( The Death of the Author )

If starting is thrilling, and finishing is empty, then why create at all?
We create, we abandon, we restart. And maybe that’s the point.
Just maybe all that accumulates to a better sleep, a hug by a breeze, the love by a dog, just simple things.
Maybe unfinished things aren’t failures. Maybe they’re just echoes of what could have been, and that’s enough. yes that is in fact Enough.

I will shut up for now and scream into the void.

Instead of chasing “completion,” maybe I should embrace the mess.
Maybe some things are meant to stay unfinished, like half-written songs or half-read books or songs you would only listen once.
And maybe that’s not a tragedy. Maybe that’s just how art works.

And Maybe at the end of it all, I will finish what I finally want to finish, the beautiful art that I paint everyday by living this life.