I’m never enough. How do you engage fully with life when you feel you have so little to offer the world? I say you, I mean I. I’m talking to myself. Always.
I’ve written and deleted three paragraphs so far. I’m floundering. I don’t know what to say. My thoughts aren’t clear enough to capture. Am I upset about my writing? my life? both?
I thought I should at least find a scrap of a poem and write about it. There are so many lying around that I haven’t managed to finish. I should be able to work one of those into a decent, thoughtful post. It would be a good exercise if nothing else. Sometimes that kind of analysis helps me finish those abandoned pieces. Not today.
No, today I’m not having any luck with words. My confidence is low. I let myself get sucked back into thinking that only those brilliant writers, the genius voices, have a right to express themselves. I can’t play at their level, so I don’t belong in the game. It’s a sticky trap, one I get caught in too often. It begins with feeling I should be more than I am, and it spirals from there, leaving me and my handful of words feeling embarrassed and ashamed. What do I have to offer anyone?