Nonsense thoughts

Dear Shakespeare,

I feel as if I will never have the exact words to describe the way in which I felt, or the depth of my experiences a few Friday's ago. I went to see Tavi Gevinson give a talk.  I don't mean it in a fangirl consumed by obsession sort of way (maybe a little bit). Mostly it was one of the rare moments in my life where I felt entirely within the present moment, for the first time I was able to understand what all the weird spiritual guru's  were trying to say. My mom plays their cd's in the car almost every day, sometimes to achieve a "soothing effect" chirping dolphin noises accompany their dulcet tones. I was always cynical of what they said, how they preached the present moment in a cult-like manner. But I think I understand now, I just wonder whether they do.

I dressed like my sister  when she plays "grownups" with my clothes; a mess of  plastic glitz, donut socks and a large brown coat from thirty years ago. Trailing through the city streets before Tavi's talk I could tell my ridiculous attire made passers-by uncomfortable, I was weird, odd, dressed like a loon. But cliché as it sounds I  didn't give a damn, I felt amazing, like a fucking princess in my pipe cleaner crown. 

Her talk felt so honest, so real and full of brilliance. I still haven't quite finished processing and interpreting what she said. I feel like I could give you a recount of each thing she spoke about, but Shakespeare  I won't.  There are videos of it online, I would somehow manage to dry out and dull her words. She made me feel an overwhelming urge to try though, to try whatever without crippling expectations. I suffer from the fear, sometimes it gets so bad that I don't do anything at all, just give up and sleep or sometimes cry. I feel as if it's unwarranted though. I don’t have a specific reason to be sad, it makes me feel self absorbed and bratty. Do you understand?

She talked about her obsessive journaling, how each time she began a new journal she adopted a new aesthetic, a new handwriting, way of dressing, a new way of living. She said it was to make the nostalgia extra good. It got me thinking, on my fixation with nostalgia and the past, how reality changes in my head so that the past seems so much better than the present could ever offer me. Wouldn't it be interesting to make a sculpture representing the actuality of an event, all smooth and straight lines, and  then contrast it with another sculpture representing the  warped way in which I interpret the event once it has passed, colored by nostalgia and longing.

I hardly know what I am saying any more, I apologize if this all comes out as an obscure, sloppy attempt at a letter. Recently I've noticed that I use the word "attempt" quite frequently. Not because I lack a vocabulary larger than the word, but because whenever I do something I feel an excessive need to apologize. I paint  a watercolour. I say I attempted a watercolour, I attempted a poem. I  provide a plethora of excuses  as to why it looks  or sounds terrible. I'm so scared of actually trying and then failing. I'm scared of recognizing the boundaries of my actual abilities and finding out that they don't extend all that far, that I am helplessly plain, the generic brand at the supermarket. 

Truly Mary,

P.s Sorry for the angsty, feeling-sy letter

P.p.s please listen to this song