In this space through which time passes, waves of insecurity rise and threaten to engulf me. At one time, these waves were the cause of much distress, though now I know they are nothing more than simple thoughts. And now I clearly see places where I hide. Each time I am faced with a blank page, I go blank inside. It is a form of worthlessness I learned as a child: like I won’t have anything worthwhile to share. And even if I manage to begin to compose a thought, often I can’t seem to reach a satisfying end.
Could it be that floating adrift on an ocean of insecurity is a strategy I use to avoid going deeper? When centered, I know perfection is everywhere, even if a situation may not be ideal. And at times the writing which I find most weak, pointless, or irrelevant ends up nominated as being most insightful to those who are not me.
In this space through which time passes, I see all the ways I remain comfortably hidden. If I only share things that I deem are worth sharing, I will die never having known what it is to be fully alive. So in this space through which time passes, I choose to dive deep when the waves tower above me; I choose to share when I’d rather shut down; I choose to breath, bow, and smile when wild winds rage.