Many times before sharing, I think about the artists of the past, and how they never really had this issue of choosing what to share. They just made shit, enjoyed it. Hoped to make a bit of cash. Mostly they just did it. I think about them, because like now; tried at least five different titles, pondered angles of other blogs. Mostly thought about every which way, of not to be displayed. Became overly judgemental. Disgusted. Got angry. Not the Croatian lady anger, that admired, expected passion. That is sexy, tolerated. Not like that, no, just quietly, where no one could see it. Passively.
How much is shared, how much is seen. What’s the point.
I don’t want to be considered some travelling blogger, or the artist who is discovering herself through last name illusionary heritage. ‘Being Croatian is cool man’, because secretly everyone categorises humanity into delicacies. Undeniably, the women here are gorgeous, there is no doubt. When I look at them, I think, ‘yes you are of good stock’ and feel into my not-really-here-ness. My stock-less-ness. Non-relative. Soup. Some people near the ocean could be mistaken for rocks. Crocs are dolphins.
Doubt coupled with absurdity equals lost.
Wondering how Louise Hay struck a deal with Jana; the leading water bottle manufacturer, here on this exotic landmass. Affirmations translated from Croatian, to English.
I no longer wait to be perfect in order to love myself. I accept myself exactly as I am right here and now.
Good one, Hay. Dobro!