The Promise of Tomorrow

I am afraid to write. I feel like writers are quirky, mysterious people, who sit in the corner with a sneaky smile and dream up beautiful words about life they see around them. I feel like writers know the secret thoughts of other people. I think writers sit on the edge of the cliff, while everyone else waits safely at the bottom of the canyon. I see writers as people who take journeys, wear colorful scarves, hum to themselves, and dance when no one is watching. I admire writers, I love what they write. I love reading things that take me far away from where I am sitting comfortably. Things that make me feel suspense. Things that make me cry. Things that make me laugh. Things that make me wish I had someone to love. Things that mean something to the inner caverns of my heart.

I can't do that, I think to myself. My writing means nothing. It's a game. It's a nursery rhyme. I'm a fraud. A fake writer. Someone other writers write about when they sit in their corners with their sneaky smiles. Who am I to put words into the universe? Words that don't even tell the truth about who I really am. I am a mystery to myself. As my fingers trip quietly across they keys, I'm thinking, why am I writing this post about not writing when I am not a writer?

Thoughts cling to my fingertips and beg to be written.

p.s. I blog too much. It's bugging me. Don't be alarmed if I take a break.