I’m terrified of details.
Details mean I have a point of reference,
A yard stick against which I must judge myself.
I always judge that I come up short.
Details are the links in the chains,
chains that keep me from flying free.
But reality is made up of details.
And big pictures are made up of tiny pen strokes.
The concept is ever freer than its execution.
Ideas are seldom as stunning on paper as they are in the mind
and reality, the world of details, is constantly clipping the wings,
the wings of fairies who only wish to fly.
And thanks to that I’m stuck here,
Here in the world of details where people can’t fly,
where ideas take centuries to be made real,
where I can’t win until I’ve lost everything.
Ideas are free like the birds of the air,
But sadly, I cannot live in a world of dreams.
Reality is detail, bound and binding.
So it seems I must face my terror to live.