For a good chunk of my young-adult life, I was obsessed with the idea of creating my masterpiece. It’s not even that I wanted to create a great work of art with something to say; I felt I had to.
My fear of death led me to believe that I needed to find a way to leave a lasting legacy behind, like the filmmakers and playwrights I revered at the time.
While that feeling dissipated in later years, it reformed as a constant imposter syndrome that I still grapple with from time to time.
There are moments where I feel that my writing or music isn’t good enough. At other times, I become bitter when a work I’m proud of doesn’t get the attention I wished it deserved.
It’s a vicious ouroboros that I struggle to break out of. This may sound like a strangely dramatic way to introduce Starstruck: Hands of Time.