Zoya K.
Photography by Colleen Charchut
If you’re reading this, you may be engaged with internal perfectionism.
This extract is my own experience dealing with the relentless need to meet impossibly high standards. However, over time, I learned that progress is the goal; embracing my mistakes as stepping stones and not setbacks freed me from the weight I had placed on myself. I celebrated my efforts and journey, allowing me to experience the joy of simply creating and growing.
If you also feel as such, know that you are already enough. Let go and take a leap of faith. Trust that the person you are presently is worth celebrating.
Resting on the solemn bench, the brush of my mind etched every curve, stroke and swirl of my surroundings. Wisps of amber cascaded with elegance, resembling a flickering candle losing its spark. It was the natural order, for every element to endure an idyllic rebirth, like that of a phoenix emerging from ash. An artist’s duty is to capture the essence of virtue, sheathing vibrancy on the canvas of life, framed by unparalleled devotion.
The tender glare of the sun began to abate as latent evening approached. Humbly, the lamp posts pulsed, emanating warmth and painting glittering streaks of gold onto the deep hues of the lake. Vibrant leaves waltzed as the delicate, dainty breeze explored the reverberating soul of autumn. An explosion of vermilion reds and incandescent oranges further entranced the artist; each scintillating wind whisper coaxed forth promises of unseen gradients - nothing short of the finest to attach onto my creative repertoire.
It was a reflection of the world once-unknown, a luminescent panorama of constellations littering every inch of the cavernous ether. It was exemplary for a virtuoso such as myself; a natural muse, reaching for the stars.
The crunch of leaves bridled under my leaf-lined shoes as each taut step brought me further to my inspiration. Wilting flowers defined my path, fragmented petals fracturing the smooth parallel of the lake. My hand brushed over the surface, gaze focused austerely on the sagacious pool’s tears swaying across my ink-stained fingertips. It was my interruption of nature that sent light ripples to the ends of the earth, shattering the seascape that once held the unscathed Pleiades in its grasp.
A self-forged mirror, reflecting flaws with all of keenest sight; my inner voice was a judge holding me to the harshest of lights. Thus, it was my consuming defeatism that allowed me to relinquish yet another uninspiring misfire.
The colours of my imagined world blurred and choked, amalgamating into clenched pools of chaos as the lake, once serene, consumed my creation whole, claiming my oeuvre for itself. Yet, as the ripples faded, what remained was not loss but possibility — a blank canvas, still, serene and awaiting — inviting me to begin anew.
Zoya K., Northwestern University
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