ASH AMBIRGE

Author, CEO & Founder

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To the Woman With the Fake Smile: Stop It, You Fucking Pigeon

In: Creating, Creativity, Life, Success,

Can we all just stop, already?
Stop apologizing.
Stop saying sorry.

Stop shrinking into some small little ball-less version of yourself—you know, so you don’t make all the other ball-less twats feel uncomfortable. Or risk offending somebody. Or do something controversial. Or doing all of that and then totally screwing it up and feeling stupid. God forbid.

I’m sick and tired of it. I’m sick of seeing you hesitate. Second guess yourself constantly. Smile weakly.

FUCKING WILT.

You’re wilting away and you don’t even see it. But you feel it. God, do you feel it.

That’s the feeling you can’t describe. The one where you “should” be happy and you “should” be grateful and you “should” be skipping down a golden fart-filled rainbow everyday—preferably pausing briefly for some sun salutations—because everything looks fine on the outside and everyone tells you how lucky you are and holy shit is that MEMORY FOAM under your carpet? YOU SHOULD BE GRATEFUL BECAUSE THERE ARE PEOPLE WITH LESS MEMORY FOAM THAN YOU.

But instead you’re drifting around like a flimsy little hollowed out gutless shell of a ghost (an impressive feat, indeed), wishing you could do X, Y or Z, but then immediately swatting down your own ideas, because that would be:

a) Too crazy
b) Too complicated
c) Too risky
d) Too expensive
e) Too big / scary / unrealistic

Or

Because you don’t know what you’re doing or because you wouldn’t know where to start or because your husband won’t let you or because your sister thinks you’re crazy.

Who cares?
Who really cares?
Is it worth it?

Is it worth it to never actually feel like yourself again? Is it worth having to put on a show for the rest of your life? Is it worth it, having to fake the smile, and fake the enthusiasm, and fake every emotion you’re “suppose” to be having?

You pigeon.

This is not living with integrity. It’s the opposite. It’s a big, fat betrayal. You’ve given and given and given to everyone else, given in to their demands and whims and wishes and worries, and you’ve cut out your own heart in the process.

You pigeon.

You could’ve really been something. You still can. The artist inside your fingers still flickers. But, but, but, but, BUT, BUT, BUT, BUT, BUT!

You fucking pigeon.

There are things worth worrying about in this life: Death. Famine. Sickness. Tragedy.

And then there are the things that aren’t. Trivial, baseless worries taking up space in your skull and quietly, quietly, quietly expanding until there’s no room for anything else. What if? What if it’s too much work? What if I’m not as good as I used to be? What if I’m not any good at all? What if I’m just average? What if I disappoint myself? What if I’m just fooling myself? What if I’m just a big, fat joke?

I don’t know. What if? Can you handle it? Can you handle being wrong about yourself? And more importantly, can you handle being right?

You pigeon.

I’ve resorted to name calling because it’s the only way you’ll get angry. It’s the only way you’ll pay attention. It’s the only way you’ll hear me.

You’ve left yourself behind. You've abandoned ship. You’ve taken the coward's way out.

And then you wonder why.

You stay up late at night wondering why.

Why do you feel like a hollowed out empty shell of a ghost?

Because you are.

But it’s never too late. It’s really not. Time is actually on our side. Time wants you to grab onto her tee-shirt and never let go. Time wants you to use her up, to ride her coattails, to be everything she hoped for you.

There is still time. And there is still hope. And there is still, and forever will be, creativity, which will always be there for you, waiting patiently to welcome you home, even after you’ve drifted.

Pigeons are beautiful birds, my love, once they remember they’re doves.

 

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