Let me know if I’m the only one who can say to myself: “What do you have to say that’s so special? What could you add to all the thoughts already out there, that could make a difference or encourage what hasn’t already been encouraged?”
I’m sure I’m not the only one who has had these and similar thoughts run circles through my mind. Freezing up the pencil, keeping the keys from clicking.
Still, I confess, it gets the best of me so very often.
I don’t write regularly anymore. Oh how I used to.
And I wrote for me. For God’s eyes and my heart. To better understand the world around me. To better understand myself. I know there’s nothing wrong with that – it is where joy came from, all illegible until syllables became sense. Yet I wanted to continue in this passion of writing more than just once in a while, as an afterthought. I wanted to wrap my life around it, like a blanket that never shreds, always keeping comfort locked within its fibers. So I studied it more. I obtained a degree in it. And here I am…avoiding the opportunities to breathe through it’s oxygen-giving leaves. Because of fears. Because of excuses. Because I don’t want to fail anymore. But what is failure? Some say its only definition is the absence of trying.