„It doesn’t have to be perfect.“
It can’t be. Perfectionism is a disease. It’s not even a wound; it’s a lie in a lie in a lie. It’s a promise wrapped in the destruction of the soul.
„It doesn’t have to be polished right now.“
Your art doesn’t „have to be“ anything. Except for holding a piece of your heart, of your soul. To help you exhale.
It probably comes from a good place, reminding us like that.
For me, it feels like it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other.