Sometimes the blank screen scares me.
It usually always scares me.
I don’t like looking at it.
I feel like it’s always looking sideways at me,
mocking me, even.
But I keep coming back to it.
I know it’s part of my gift, my journey, my work in the world.
As I type, it gets easier and easier to type.
I realize that the blank screen is not judging me (duh lol).
It’s just there.
Actually wanting me to unlock its secrets,
divulge its depth.
Well, not really *its* depths – it’s just a blank page lol.
I mean, it’s waiting on me, existing purely for the purpose of divulging *my* depths.
It’s such a journey, isn’t it?
I keep straying away from the thing I so desire and I keep coming back to it, again and again and again.
Like an alcoholic…
except it’s actually the most healthy thing for me, the most expressed and life-giving activity I do, besides my personal journaling.
I think I put pressure on myself, sometimes.
My personal journaling gets to be whatever the fuck it wants to be.
But my published writing – oh, that needs to be ‘value-adding’ and ‘interesting’ and ‘attention-grabbing’ and blah blah fuckity blah.
And so, I don’t wanna write.
And also, no.
Because I made up the bullshit about my published writing needing to be a certain way.
I heard it somewhere, tucked it away in the recesses of my innocent and naive heart, made it my friend, and gave it some coffee and donuts for its stay.
The truth is, I am me.
And I bought into the illusion that my writing needs to be anything other than *exactly* me.
It’s scary sometimes, thinking that what’s going to come out on this blank canvas is going to incriminate me in some way, bare open my guts.
Ultimately, my fear is that I’m seen as an imposter.
Or worse, that I am one.
The whole sham is that that’s even possible.
I feel like the veil is thinning out, or just dissolving.
The self-created idea that my personal life is separate from my shared life.
It never was.
It gets to be exactly what I want it to be.
And what I want is integrity.
This is actually what I am in all other areas of my life.
I show up as and do exactly me.
And to an extent, I do that here too.
But there’s just a slight shadow of trying to meet some kind of expectation and standard for a way of being.
And it’s not for me.
I can feel the parts of me that roll and rumble within, aching to get out, to be flowed onto paper and screen.
And I deserve to.
I deserve to be me, up and down, in and out, and all around.
I deserve to let writing be an extension of me.
To let it go wild and untamed, unfettered, uncontained.
I really have been all up in my bullshit about this, haven’t I?
No one’s telling me to be anything other than me lol.
That’s the great cosmic joke, isn’t it?
That the life I live is the result of what I allow it to be.
All the things I want and have in life is not what has been deemed appropriate for me to have.
It’s what *I’ve* motherfucking deemed as appropriate for ME to have.
That statement both blows me the F up and humbles me like a mofo.
You feel that too?
I think this is the end of it for me – for today.
If you’re still reading this, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.
If you feel called, let me know what you think about this post, my writing, whatever, I would love it deeply.
And if not, be on your way, foo.
Hahah. I love you.