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In the (almost) aftermath of the Industrial build competition, I could spend a long while harping on controversial and technical matters which my peers will surely cover in a more objective and "detailed" way. So instead, I would like to share one simple lesson that I have learned, through my own mistakes. It is the only thing that I feel qualified to say.
Bitterness has earned no place in my heart. It has made good on none of its promises.
I have held onto bitterness during building, evaluating, and aftermaths. Many aftermaths. I have held it long enough to leave a deep and constant ache in my hands even when I hold nothing. Now I am sad. And I wish for all of you the simple joy of creation, which I have forgotten to embrace in the most vital times.
I am almost twenty-five years old. I am not old enough to consider myself a veteran of this existence, and I never will be. But I am old enough to look back on the wounds ripped across my life and see them reflected in the lives of many around me, young and old. I see so much anger, division, over petty things. Things that have so little to do with art.
Art. Inseparable from joy. To think otherwise is madness. I think otherwise each day, and fail to create art.
I have listened to the promises of bitterness. It has told me that by raising myself above another, I will achieve my dream.
My dream. To create immaculate art. To create so much beauty that the world will turn toward love. Toward me.
Bitterness has told me that if I imagine myself as beautiful and powerful – more than anyone else – I can become The One.
Yet when I turn against my friend to make him my enemy, what is this ache in my hands?
I realize that I cannot be The One. I am Everyone. In my effort to attack another, I make an enemy of myself. I feel the pang of the self-inflicted wound.
I can become One with my fellow creatures, and the power waiting here is infinitely more than what waits in the maw of bitterness.
But this power is not gained through pleasure. It is gained through a terrible choice.
It is the most painful choice I can make: to tear free from bitterness. To release myself from it, and it from me. And then, with my own hands, to hang bitterness up in light, in shame, for my wounded friends to see. It has been a weapon. Now it will be a confession.
I am bitter. I have wished to hurt you, and may have acted on it. I have wished to subdue you, and may have acted on it. I am sorry.
You have hurt me, and I want to tell you how. But I will never hurt you back. Not anymore.
I am sorry for putting myself above you. I am sorry for thinking myself below you, so that I must ascend. I should have communed with you, learned from you, and offered my gifts in peace, instead of insisting my way – or your way – as the right way.
When these thoughts are sent, the skin of bitterness rots away, revealing a pure core of forgiveness. And what comes from this?
Joy.
Art.
The more joy I have, the less I care what is right or wrong in terms of creation, and paradoxically, a better builder I become; the less I preach ideals and the more I inspire by example. Then, my builds, as reflections of my supportive personality, become convincing as timeless works of art.
This is not to dismiss the importance of words. If you have something encouraging to say, say it. If you must say something divisive or competitive, say it too. But don't say it as an attack. Say it as a revelation – a confession. Make it a step in our journey toward unity, so that we might have greater joy, and greater art.
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Bitterness has earned no place in my heart. It has made good on none of its promises.
I have held onto bitterness during building, evaluating, and aftermaths. Many aftermaths. I have held it long enough to leave a deep and constant ache in my hands even when I hold nothing. Now I am sad. And I wish for all of you the simple joy of creation, which I have forgotten to embrace in the most vital times.
I am almost twenty-five years old. I am not old enough to consider myself a veteran of this existence, and I never will be. But I am old enough to look back on the wounds ripped across my life and see them reflected in the lives of many around me, young and old. I see so much anger, division, over petty things. Things that have so little to do with art.
Art. Inseparable from joy. To think otherwise is madness. I think otherwise each day, and fail to create art.
I have listened to the promises of bitterness. It has told me that by raising myself above another, I will achieve my dream.
My dream. To create immaculate art. To create so much beauty that the world will turn toward love. Toward me.
Bitterness has told me that if I imagine myself as beautiful and powerful – more than anyone else – I can become The One.
Yet when I turn against my friend to make him my enemy, what is this ache in my hands?
I realize that I cannot be The One. I am Everyone. In my effort to attack another, I make an enemy of myself. I feel the pang of the self-inflicted wound.
I can become One with my fellow creatures, and the power waiting here is infinitely more than what waits in the maw of bitterness.
But this power is not gained through pleasure. It is gained through a terrible choice.
It is the most painful choice I can make: to tear free from bitterness. To release myself from it, and it from me. And then, with my own hands, to hang bitterness up in light, in shame, for my wounded friends to see. It has been a weapon. Now it will be a confession.
I am bitter. I have wished to hurt you, and may have acted on it. I have wished to subdue you, and may have acted on it. I am sorry.
You have hurt me, and I want to tell you how. But I will never hurt you back. Not anymore.
I am sorry for putting myself above you. I am sorry for thinking myself below you, so that I must ascend. I should have communed with you, learned from you, and offered my gifts in peace, instead of insisting my way – or your way – as the right way.
When these thoughts are sent, the skin of bitterness rots away, revealing a pure core of forgiveness. And what comes from this?
Joy.
Art.
The more joy I have, the less I care what is right or wrong in terms of creation, and paradoxically, a better builder I become; the less I preach ideals and the more I inspire by example. Then, my builds, as reflections of my supportive personality, become convincing as timeless works of art.
This is not to dismiss the importance of words. If you have something encouraging to say, say it. If you must say something divisive or competitive, say it too. But don't say it as an attack. Say it as a revelation – a confession. Make it a step in our journey toward unity, so that we might have greater joy, and greater art.
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Equilibrium. Can do, can do.