I am afraid to write.
I am afraid of what will come out of me, what won’t come out of me, what might become of me ... so I hesitate and tend to write nothing at all. Meanwhile, the thoughts and emotions swirl inside me like the wild wind of a hurricane that is just gaining momentum. The frenzy finally becomes too great for me to contain and it explodes, unleashing the power of my emotions—the totality of them, not just anger or sadness. I try so very hard to be thankful for what I’ve been given in this life, for what I’ve earned in this life. So the unleashing of the frenzy is the good passion, along with the bad. I have found, however, that most people are incredibly intimidated by this passion—hardly anyone has cared to take the time to understand that it’s not simply a negative emotive experience ... it’s all of me, all of what I’m so very afraid to show.
I fear that if I channel that energy into writing, I may dwell in despair too long... or linger in the memories of my most painful experiences. I firmly believe that our thoughts are powerful and create our existence. What if I spend just a little too long writing about my pain and my thoughts bring about more anguish?
What if I write something that offends someone I have absolutely no intention of offending? Or worse, hurts someone I would never dream of hurting?
What if I am a complete failure at this writing thing, and it isn’t the cathartic exercise I so desperately want it to be?
What if I’m really good at it and more is expected of me?
What if I stop being afraid, and just live?
I am afraid ... no, terrified ... of what my writing may bring.
I think the only thing I am more afraid of is what might become of me if I keep living in fear.
