Phares, mon cheri...

I grew up in constant apprehension and fear of my art, my work not being good enough. Like many of us, I spent sleepless nights thinking of the possibilities how every idea could be labelled as derivative, unoriginal, in a world inundated with overflowing minds. Alas, I visit the museums, the art galleries, and cast my eyes upon the stained glasses in cathedrals, and can't help but think of how the beauty in art flows through when we are least concerned with how it will be perceived by others, but more on how reflective it is of our current state of affairs.

And if you were to breathe your final breath today, what would your legacy be?

Would it be your wealth, your possessions or the followers on your socials? Would it be the lives you changed, the love you spread, or the people you inspired? Would it be the smiles you instigated, the belief you instilled or the support you provided in the darkest of times? Would it be the hate you spewed, the blood you spilled, the tears you caused? Would it be the missed opportunities, the what-ifs or the would've should've could've beens? Would it be the trust you betrayed, the people you disappointed, the promises you broke? Would it be the storms you faced in silence, the kindness you showed when most inconvenient, the care you distilled relentlessly?

I feel as though my plight has always been being a hopeless romantic in a world that is built for pragmatism, surrounded by people who raised their eyebrows at selfless, relentless love.

The mismatched words put together always confused me growing up as I weaved love into each gesture, each interaction. Why was someone who didn't believe in limits when it came to love and care, someone who went above and beyond in a measured and calculated world, someone who was a dreamer in a world inundated with stories of unrequited love labelled a 'hopeless romantic'? Would they not be the most hopeful of romantics instead? I digress.

Labels tend to weave a cage within our minds. We worry of the ways we would be labelled if we stayed true to ourselves, and the connotations that would follow. Thus, many of us end up conforming to what those around us would find more acceptable, what they wouldn't judge, what wouldn't stand out to them, and in doing so, we delve into a state of mediocrity we weren't made for. Should there be an ounce or an infinity of love, care, affection in your heart and mind, express it all. There is liberation in doing so. Even when unreciprocated, there is a bittersweet satisfaction in knowing you gave it your all, isn't there?

What was that age old adage again? It is better to have loved and lost, than to not have loved at all, or something to that effect? It rings true now more so than ever. Our lives have become so rapid now, blink and they're over. Poof, gone. An inconsequential sequence of affairs in the grand scheme of things. What are we to do to leave our mark?

Stories, be they fictitious or from history, tell you all around how even the most remarkable can be imprisoned, caged, trapped. Emperors sent to exile, superheroes imprisoned, princesses locked up in tall towers.

More often than not, we inadvertently tend to be the architects of our own cages: The way we think, the way we act, the choices we make to placate others all relevant to countless of us in various stages of our lives. In those crossroads of life, I wish all of us had people who had our best interests at heart in our support networks; the kind of people who gently reminded us how this life is ours, and nobody else's. Alas, many of us misconceive that what we're doing is in our best interests: passions not pursued, feelings unexpressed, stars and sunsets missed…