I’ve been meditating and, perhaps more importantly, journaling almost every day, and I’ve made some realizations, but none so visceral as the beautiful pain I felt tonight after I attempted choreographing.
As a dancer, I feel like I’ve reached a limit. I can learn to do other peoples’ dances, but it is almost consistently at the same level. I can feel the ceiling. Not that I couldn’t overcome it by grinding at it by learning other peoples’ dances, but there’s something else much more effective that I could do.
Absolute failure. That’s what I can do. As I struggled to cobble something, anything, together to limp along with the music, I felt my inadequacy so strongly that I literally started trash talking my reflection. I couldn’t understand why I was so bad at remembering the movements I had just made. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t think of concepts ahead of time. I just. Could. Not. Understand.
I have not felt this kind of self-hatred since I started tricking.
It is painful. But it is beautiful at the same time. This kind of failure is what makes life worth living – knowing that what I want to do and what I can do are so far apart. Not only knowing it, but demonstrating it to myself over and over, like driving a screwdriver into my clavicle and twisting.
I’ve missed this. I need this. I need this everywhere in my life.