Or, more accurately, a series of post-it notes I wrote to myself while in a self doubting spot at work. I want to be a writer. I’m going to be a writer. I am a writer. I am enough.
You have not gone far enough to give up. You haven’t dug your heels into concrete. Your shoes are still intact, you haven’t drawn blood. You have not reached a point to shrug your shoulders and say “well, I tried”.
You have yet to feel the satisfaction of a project moved to completion, you don’t know what it’s like. You want it, but will you fight?
You assume you have reached a place where things cannot possibly get worse. You’re wrong, and they can, but things can get better, too. That’s all up to you.
Now go put books away, dummy. You’re fine.
Of course the day after I promise to post everyday my family practically blows up. Trying to hold it together. I didn’t get the chance to take a breather let alone write, but here’s an old, silly poem I wrote awhile ago because I don’t want to give up. I’m worried, and honestly scared, but I will not let that control me. We will be okay.
Trying to sway my hands in a way that somehow seems melodic.
You watch me enchanted as I utter condolences to that iguana who died last week.
I know he thinks I’m fancy but really I’m ok.
Because that iguana didn’t care if his tail was on fire, he barely felt a thing.
So why do you expect me to keep on singing when I’m just like that stupid iguana.
Spinning in circles amazed at the flames burning me alive.
I wanted to add that I thought I was pretty edgy back then, but honestly I can’t say I wouldn’t write something similar today and also think it was extremely edgy, so. What can you doooo.