I find writing about life, blogging about life, and dreaming about the future more difficult than actually living it. When I try to do all four, sometimes it’s impossible. I can’t say that I write to remember, I write to share, to express, to create, and most days to forget. When I sit at my laptop I often catch a glimpse of myself in the screen and I wonder about her. Who is this woman (that looks like a teenager) trying to fool? Her words could never express the amount of confusion that goes on inside her head, the fear in her heart. I don’t know if she’s more afraid that things won’t work out, or just scared that they won’t work out the way she thought they might.
I think myself an imposture. Writer’s write and some days I just can’t. I won’t. Who really cares what it feels like to be me at almost thirty, or ever for that matter? Who cares that some days my confidence sinks so far below the surface of my skin that I can’t quite remember who I am or what my ambitions are? That I’m suddenly anxious, afraid, and completely downtrodden by my own crippling doubts. Who cares that I suddenly feel lonely? Who notices that I put up brick walls and allow the doors, windows, and tiny cracks of light to be shut up with thick plaster? Who cares that I’m trapped with only the stench of my own morning breath to keep me company?
Who cares that I don’t feel strong enough to break the walls down?
Probably everyone, most likely no one.
Perhaps it’s only me and my fingers tapping at the keys.
Perhaps that is how it will always be.
*Excerpt from my next book This is Almost Thirty