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ChatGPT, what should my subtitle be?
Vulnerability is my human strength.
Should Chat edit my thoughts and manicure my wildness into something digestible?
Why am I seduced by the desire to press publish on an incomplete stream of consciousness?
Maybe I’m longing for questions more than answers…for expressions of what is unfinished…a taste of what others are chewing on.
I like walking with questions, rather than illusionary answers that momentarily satisfy insatiable hunger.
The teachers I seek ask questions that open more questions. In time, the question becomes irrelevant and another question takes its place.
Is there anything one could say that would stop me from doubting? I hope not.
Being human is being incomplete.
To be an artist means not to count or reckon but to ripen like the tree that does not force its sap and trustingly, stands through the storms of spring without fear that summer will not come. It will come. But it comes only to the patient ones, who stand there with eternity stretching around them, quiet, vast, and free of worry. I learn this everyday, learn it amid struggle. for which I am thankful. Patience is all!
-Rainer Maria Rilke
