I’m just gonna come out with it.
I struggle, you guys.
Struggle with what…?
I’m not sure how to describe it, really.
It’s this thing where if I write something and it strikes a nerve with a few people, I go all weak in my mental knees.
I paralyze because, well, that one bit of writing that struck a nerve, what if, what if, I can never ever write another piece like it?
And then, what if, after penning endless irrelevancies that are both boring and meaningless, I am discovered to be,
Some sort of human fluke...
This admission of mine? It’s vulnerability’s territory, and I’m really not comfortable there- it’s all so soft and squishy. My brain keeps shrieking, “Run, damn it. You’re gonna get eaten alive!”
In telling the truth, though, I’m showing up to lick the proverbial waters, litmus testing whether or not truth-telling really enlivens old failing flailing limbs.
“It feels so great to finally dive into the water; maybe you splash around and flail for a while, but at least you’re in. Then you start doing whatever stroke you can remember how to do, and you get this scared feeling inside of you - of how hard it is and how far there is to go - but still you’re in and you’re afloat, and you’re moving.”