I give myself credit for an extremely critical eye. Not always an eye to find faults, but to analyze, understand, explore. Often, I turn this sense inward, to discover how I’m feeling, what I’m thinking, or to simply realize the state of myself and the world around me. I find joy in understanding the context and the reasons behind my thought and actions. An exercise like this essay would then seem to offer little challenge. If I can comprehend myself, how can it be difficult to copy that onto a sheet of paper? The answer to that lies, paradoxically, in my same critical eye. This one aspect of my psyche defines me more than any other part, but as a whole person, I strive to be more than that.
I give credit to both my parents for my growth as a not only a living creature, but a thinking human. My father is a teacher, a musician, a conversationist, and a poet. My mother is an fashion designer, a researcher, a librarian, and well, a mother. These titles seem varied, but they show the depth I find in my parents. Not content to simply stagnate, over the course of their lives they have continuously explored new subjects and different ways of thinking and encouraged me to do the same. My contemplative skills I’ve acquired by example from my dad and my outgoing voice by example from my mom. Their moral support has been immense. From them I’ve learned the value of kindness, the importance of treating humans humanely.
This moral sense creates the basis of my personal philosophy: I wish to improve the world, but above all do no harm to it. I believe that my presence in this world should not be a drain upon inhabitants. I try to make others happy and ease suffering: as an artist I create work that I hope other will enjoy; among my friends, I joke in order to spread laughter, but I strive to do so kindly. To me, these constructive activities are more important and bring even better rewards than money or fame. However, I would be lying if said I always succeed in these endeavors. I continuously cope with my fear of failure, but it often overwhelms me.
Take for example, this essay. Since I was a child in elementary school, the prospect of composing papers has terrified me. It is not because I dislike doing them, but because I fear the idea of producing a bad product. The Art of Writing is extremely free form and with that comes the chance of making mistakes. This logic seems absurd even to me, but yet I still struggle. This anxiety expands to more than just essays though, and has had a profound impact on the way I live my life. I often feel as if I’m not leading such a fulfilling life as others, avoiding or shying away from activities that other enjoy, but I try to compensate by leaving my comfort zone when I can. I’m willing to take long walks far away from home, when in the past I disliked even my front yard.
Someday, I’m going to take a very long walk. The promise of striking out on my own excites me immensely. Maybe it will be a chance to cast off the reins of past phobias, but I know it will be a chance for me to define myself as I want. I picture myself 10 years from now: a tiny house with wife and kids, an art studio, and an empty driveway. This domestic ideal appeals to me because it offers a sense of security and well being. I can be responsible for and take care of home and family. I will leave my mark on the world, and I promise to make it valuable.
