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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.

1 comment

  1. Hopefully when you write from the heart and without reservations, the magic will follow.

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