I had been meaning to write a blog post pretty much all week. Some thoughts have been stewing in my head over the past few days (big shocker, I know), but I just hadn’t set aside the time to articulate them in any particular way.

Earlier this week some maintenance guys came to my place to assess some damage done to the ceiling of the condo I rent. One of the guys come into my house, and looks at the red accent wall I have at the back of my living room. His expression sours a bit as he looks at the dark maroon before looking to me and asking, “Who painted that? I wouldn’t want them painting my wall.”

I painted that wall. A few years back. It was something I had been wanting to do for a long time, but like that dead TV I would just keep putting off until I was just like, “Screw it. This is happening.”

My sister and a friend that’s more like a brother to me helped me get the supplies and ladder and what not to paint it. It took an entire afternoon, but I think it turned out pretty neat.

It is imperfect.

One side of the wall has more layers of paint than the other. The center section in particular has a once over or two too many, to the point the texture of the paint itself runs a bit coarse. At best, it’s the work of an amateur and it would raise the brow of anyone that holds interior design in any sort of regard.

But I did it.

It feels like my soul laid bare on a wall, in a lot of ways. Someone walks into my house and upon a slight inspection you think, “Okay. That wall is red.” If you take a closer look, you can see how awe inspiring the actual work is not. And that’s okay.

And it was okay when this maintenance guy frowned at my accent wall. A year or so ago his comment would have stung. I might have felt some measure of embarrassment or shame. The perfectionist in me would roaring out of the gates, chiding me for failing to paint the wall perfectly.

Instead, I just smiled at the guy and said, “I painted it, and I like it how it is.” He just kinda shrugged at me and went on about his business, but there was something in that moment for me. Where I felt comfortable showing imperfections, that was pretty cool for me.

Maybe I’ll start to feel more comfortable in my skin yet someday.

I had been meaning to write about this for a few days now. While I was streaming this weekend, someone who visits my channel with some form of regularity mentioned that they read my blog post about my trip to BlizzCon; him and his wife both. He said they found what I wrote to be relatable, and that they even read a few other posts. When he asked if that was some infringement on my personal privacy, I said that it wasn’t at all.

An interesting side effect of this blog is that people actually do read it, and to my surprise they can find some common ground over my random musings. So when I hear a thing like that it makes my day, because it takes a lot for me to express my feelings or thoughts regardless of the medium. It’s a big deal for me.

I mentioned the story about my accent wall in the stream. That I had planned to write about it, and that I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Granted I was busy playing a computer game at the time, but it felt very difficult for me to try to explain what that story about the accent wall meant to me. When I write, I can pause, collect my thoughts, and lay them out in a very specific manner. I don’t have that kind of poise when it comes to speaking.

I would imagine a lot of the message’s gravity was lost in my loose-hand attempt at talking about my feelings as opposed to writing them. It’s a muscle that needs a lot of exercise.

This post has gotten a little meta, I suppose. Topic about writing a topic. Writing out thoughts and feelings about writing out a subset of thoughts and feelings. But there was just something about realizing how ill-equipped I was at vocalizing my feelings that has sat with me all weekend.

What stops me from processing this unending stream of thought and turning it into something I actually say. I’d comfortably say for every word I say when talking about my feelings there are six to nine floating around in my head.

A brisk swell of wind shook the balding branches of trees who have started to shed their orange and brown for the oncoming winter. Like a herald, this gust announced the promise of colder days ahead.

Versus.

The wind was cold.

What is my apprehension? Is it that I think what I have to say isn’t really worth listening to? So I pass my thoughts through a filter of self-deprecation and limit my speech to spare people? What holds me back?

I don’t know.

I hope to find out someday, though.

My feelings are worth expressing. While this blog has come to mean a lot to me, it’s not the endgame. It’s a stepping stone towards my being more in touch with my feelings and developing an ability to express them.

I can do this.