Another morning, another fog, another hazy way to start my day. A yearning inside, a desire to write, but the fear nagging at me, as always. I am a writer, I tell myself, therefore I must write. Write. Write. Write. And yet, my heart fails me even as I open the program and the words I have previously written stare back at me.
It’s a dare, perhaps, a challenge thrown at me with derision. You won’t do it. You can’t. You’re not real, after all. You’re just a figment of your imagination. You will never find the words to capture everything, anyway. It’s hopeless, you know.
Yet, time and again, I push these words aside, and I write. Tap, tap, tap, a little here, a little there. My word count grows, a tiny caterpillar, an inchworm slowly inching across the page and ideas are vomited onto the page, lacking beauty perhaps, but also incredibly beautiful in their rawness, in their nakedness, in the very fact that they are not at all beautiful. So much more than pretty. Tiny babies, these are mine and mine alone right now, these are my thoughts, my innermost thoughts. These are direct reflections of me, because I’m not beautiful, I am raw, I am naked.
So let my words reflect this. Let them stand, proud and alone, wrong sometimes, because that’s ok. The surgery comes later, and that is kind of sad, but it is what is necessary for public consumption.
Screw all of them. They are delicious to me.