It’s so easy to stop the dream. To doubt myself. I write because I want to. I write because I feel a need to but it’s so easy to stop. There are so many reason’s I can think of to plant seeds of doubt in my brain. I’ve never written on a consistent basis. I’m not a good writer. I’m not a blogger. I don’t know how to link all my posts. I don’t know how to advertise what I post…. and the list goes on. It’s so damn easy to stop. To doubt. To let go of the pulls of the dream. But I choose not to. I choose to move forward. Learning. Letting go of perfection and holding on tightly to the grip of my desires. It’s so easy to stop yet so much more fulfilling to persevere.
I’ve been sick in bed quite a bit lately and it’s given me time to think. Life to ponder. There has been one consistent looping thought that has haunted my brain over and over again. It’s a thought that I have had, not for just the last month while sick in bed, but one that I’ve had for many years. I want to write. I need to write. I want to say I don’t know who I’m writing for or for what the bigger purpose of my writing is but that would be a lie. I know I need to write. I need to share. It’s something that has burned inside of me for years and yet I’ve denied it.
I’ve denied myself the freedom of expression out of fear of what others will think.
I’ve created a world of judgement and fear of criticism I’ve heard and received. So I’ve criticized myself. I’ve closed down ideas I’ve had and have decided to not share. The irony of it all is that I’ve felt it was others, outsider, doing damage to myself. But the reality is it has only been me that has been causing the damage.
It has been my own personal story that I have stayed connected to. One of less then, of fear of failure, one of doubt. Instead of worrying about why I’ve made the decisions in the past or what has caused them I’ve decided to do exactly what I’ve been wanting to do. Write.
The fear is still there. What will others think? What criticism will I receive? But something has happened while being sick. A “who gives a shit” attitude has emerged. I know some people will not understand my writing. Some won’t like it. Some will criticize it. But I realize I do not write for them. I write for me. And I write for you. The one reading. The one I’m meant to inspire. The one who’s heart I touch.
A gift I have and one that I’ve been comfortable with for many years is that I’m comfortable being vulnerable. I’m comfortable sharing who I am, what I go through and what I learn. And that is why I write. That is why I share. Something has emerged in the world of the un-well that I am unleashing.
Something new inside as if the old skin has shed. So with an innocence of not knowing what will come next I write. I share and I do the unthinkable…. I post.