I
wrote a post and read over it several times, like I do, and had every intention
of posting it here in place of this one, but I didn’t. Obviously. For the first
time in a long time I second guessed myself and the composition of words I put
together. It wasn’t the words themselves, it wasn’t even the purpose of them or
the story they told or the passion behind every letter. It was the thought of
having it misconstrued or worse… understood. My fears and insecurities, like
anyone else’s, often find their way to the surface and bubble up with such
force that I’m left with no choice but to sink under them and wait. Wait for
what? Wait for them to dissolve back into the water of reality, wait until they
find their way back to each other and to the light, wait until I’m able to
ignore them all together or else collect them and accept them and expose them
for what they are. Truth. Honesty. Transparency. I keep telling myself I write
for me, but the real reason is to make someone feel something. Anything. To dig
up a feeling as a reader that one hasn’t felt in quite some time, to relate, to
ignite the spark of an extinguishing fire, to accept or reject, to repeat or
discard, to just feel something and to do so is like finding magic. I just have
to believe it can happen and it will.
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Hopefully when you write from the heart and without reservations, the magic will follow.
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