Dear Twenty

Dear Twenty,

I've been scared to face you. I think I get so caught up in perfectionism. But I decided to make 20 my year of honesty. Real, brutal, sometimes uncomfortable, but rewarding honesty. And so far that word - honesty - has done a marvelous job of popping into my head every time I really need to be honest and really don't want to be. So I'll be honest about the fact that it's nearly June and I feel like the world is passing me by faster than I can write it down. But I heard somewhere that art is made in really living life and that has been a great comfort to me.

Sometimes, I really struggle to give myself permission just to live. I feel like I should always be doing something, getting another thing done, checking off another chore, or otherwise passionately throwing myself into creating art. I'm an artist, right? Don't I have to prove it? But what the fuck I am gonna make art for if I never give myself permission to really live life? Like really, really live it. When I jumped on the plane at 18 and never looked back, that felt like one of the first times I was really living. And I've had countless moments after that felt like I was living so hard, so good, that I was literally transcending the human experience. And I felt so inspired. 

Twenty feels like the beginning of something. It feels like a moment, not a beginning of a decade. It feels like one moment where you make all the memories. But it also feels like a time when you're supposed to find exactly who you are and chase it devotedly. And it feels like there are a million ways to screw it up. But I know that's not true. Twenty is merely a start, a slate. Not a fresh start or a blank slate; god knows I've got too much history and too many emotions to wear on my sleeves to pretend like I'm starting over. Because I'm not. There is no starting over, there is only starting again. This year, I know that I am not only saying goodbye to 19. I am parting also with a decade, the decade of adolescence. The end of adolescence doesn't mean that I won't carry it with me. My heart struggles to feel every emotion from nostalgia to pride to heartbreak to utter adoration. But I'm starting again into this new decade, knowing I only get to live it once and praying to the moon that I'll make the most of it. It feels like standing on a precipice: two decades of childhood behind and a decade of promise ahead. I can't wait to meet all the new versions of me emerging with this cosmic heartbeat of life. 

so to Twenty, 

I give you permission. I give you permission to be honest. I give you permission to create without the pressure of defining yourself. And I give you permission to be proud of yourself. You don't have to prove that to anyone. I give you permission to live, to love, to fuck it all up, and to start again. Fuck being perfect. I hope you are so in love with life and people and yourself that when perfectionism comes again, you can give it the middle finger. And maybe write a song about it.

Yours,

Z