The Great 3 a.m. Artistic Reckoning

Ah, the classic 3 a.m. existential crisis is when your brain revisits your past creative endeavours and questions your sanity. We've all experienced a moment when your inner critic wakes up, stretches, and says, "Hey, remember that poem you publicly wrote to your future husband or about limerance? Yeah, that was a choice."

Once upon a moonlit night, when the world was calm, and the Wi-Fi signal was at its peak, I embarked on a perilous journey. Armed with a mug of lukewarm chamomile tea and a heart full of misplaced confidence, I opened my digital treasure chest—the blog where my past self had deposited literary gems.

As I scrolled through my oeuvre, I couldn't help but chuckle at the audacity of my younger self. There they were: poems about future love & heartbreak, existential crisis, short stories featuring inept men and essays on the profound impact of dismantling the patriarchy. Each piece was a testament to my creative spirit, fueled by passion, caffeine and delusion.

But then it hit me like a typo in a résumé: I had once considered these masterpieces. I had birthed these words, sentences, and metaphors like a proud parent showing off their child's macaroni art. And now, in the cold light of adulthood, they stared back at me, mocking my literary choices.

I imagined my readers—those unsuspecting souls who stumbled upon my blog during late-night Google searches. They sought enlightenment, wisdom, and perhaps a recipe for sourdough bread. Instead, they found my treatise on the existential crisis of adulthood. I almost heard their collective gasp: "This is not what we signed up for!"

And then there were the real-life encounters. You know the ones. You meet someone at a party, and they squint at you, recognition dawning. "Wait," they say, "you're the person who wrote that heartfelt essay about the emotional turmoil of stapler repair, right?" Yes, dear acquaintance, that's me—the Hemingway of office supplies.

Social media, that deceptive mirage of authenticity, had woven its web. People assumed they knew me intimately based on my prose. "Ah," they whispered, "this author must be a tortured soul grappling with unrequited love and existential angst." But little did they know that my most profound experience involved choosing between paper or plastic at the grocery store. It's a reminder that social media perceptions are as fleeting as a tweet in a storm.

But let's not forget the ego that crumbles at this realization. Ah, the delicate ego—the fragile balloon tethered to our creative souls. Reading my old work, I realized my ego had been inflated like a bouncy castle at a toddler's birthday party. Now, it deflated faster than a punctured balloon animal. I wasn't heartbroken, mind you—just mildly deflated, like a soufflé that didn't rise.

In short, as embarrassing and cringeworthy as it was to go back into the volt and read my past works, I want to vocalize the importance of growth. with that, my fellow creatives, let us embrace our embarrassing pasts. Let us revel in our literary missteps, stepping stones to greatness. And if anyone questions our sanity, we shall raise our quills (or keyboards) high and declare, "I regret nothing!"

In conclusion, dear audience, thank you for attending my 3 a.m. Silioquey. May your slumber be filled with peace. And remember: Social media isn't real life, but it sure makes for entertaining topics at parties.

Applause.

And scene! 🎭 Thank you for joining me on this whimsical journey. I'm here if you need more existential musings or a guide to surviving awkward encounters. 😄