Potential

A fatal flaw is getting lost in every potential. Every of them, lining up the tools and techniques not one day bring every vision for life in some sort of prolific ecstasy that will require the kind of dogged solitude (ie isolation, banishment, dysfunction) that the fanatic and self indulgent truly deserve.

One may not notice, but you can build an empire of your own obsessions, slowly, piece by piece, at any cost, without realising the damage that you're doing. There are pieces of things, works intentions and such, but mostly it's detritus and there aren't enough finished, complete, resolved pieces to justify your reckless abandon and intentionality.

To be fair, there are refinements, and certain strengths, and words on a page and ways you can trace a path up a fretboard. But is it enough to make sense of the costs?

So you return to them. One by one. Dust them off. Bring some dignity to the brash resolve you started with. Piece by piece, one by one, until you realise you've done it all over again, perhaps.