Look

What is true, and what is important. That is what I will write. But already I have trouble. Because what is true and important is up to each of us. Very little of what I write is true. As to importance, well, it’s important to me.

I’m writing because I have to. I’ve kept quiet for a long time, and now I must say something. It’s important for me to say something. To add my voice to the choir? No. The choir is doing nicely without me. I don’t like the choir anyway. What am I, a soloist? No. I’m a persistent hum in the background. No, that’s not it either.

The reason I have to write is indescribable. I must write and share the writing because it is the last thing I want to do. I feel very uncomfortable and vulnerable. This is another frontier that I have steadfastly refused to venture into. It’s almost physically painful. But it feels necessary. I have to stop wishing and dreaming about writing and someone reading what I write.

Some reasons for me not to write and share: I may be criticized and laughed at and mocked. I may be seen as talentless and self-deluded. Perhaps even stupid, small small-minded, and dull. People may think that I think quite a lot of myself. And now you see I am collapsing in on myself, thinking about my thinking about my writing. I don’t think this is good writing. Or good reading. I guess this’ll have to do this until it’s out of me.

Until next time,

AB