I’ve decided I’m going to attempt to read Thus Spoke Zarathustra. And I say “attempt” because that’s what it feels like... like I’m gearing up to climb a mountain or something.

I’ve always felt like an imposter. Whether that's in my adult life, my professional life, or my hobbies. I've felt like someone who is almost smart but not quite. So before I read I like to look up the author, the stories, the surrounding noise. I feel more stable that way. I try to prepare for a book I was supposed to read, or am supposed to read now, as if I’m sneaking into a conversation I wasn’t really invited to or like I've snuck into a party.

Anyway... that’s how I found the story of Nietzsche’s final years spent silent, unraveling, gone. And that strange, cryptic postcard he sent near the end. Scribbled on it was a note roughly translated as: 

I think that's something I'm realizing about it all... that art and expression and maybe even life is... maybe you just settle in... find a place to throw your hands up and say: I made this. Maybe it’s absurd. Maybe no one gets it. But it’s mine.  

Create something. Let it be weird. Let it be unfinished. Let it be yours.