As a freshman, I thought everything I wrote was very important. I encountered a blank page with gravitas, claiming it as the grounds upon which my intellect's kingdom would quickly expand. I linked sentence upon sentence together with fervor, convinced that every page was something golden, important, worthwhile.
I've found that my trepidation has increased with time. I now encounter a blank page with fear. I do not fear its existence. Think of all the marvelous possibilities presented to so fortunate a finder of the blank! Rather, I fear the decimation of sacred choice. Each word begins with a choice. I intended, starting out, for this brief note to be one way, but now my choices have led it away from the original idea into the vast unknown of developing contemplation.
"Why take the time?" you ask.
Simple. If I do not write, I will not write. If I do not conquer this nervouse impulse toward an inordinate respect of the possible, I may never say another word again.
We learn by experience. Each conversation is filled with, "And-I'll-never-do-that-again" moments, and every child learns to swim by sinking. So, if you couldn't tell, this is me sinking...digitally. I feel like a mother bird pushing the child of my inadequacy out the nest of introverted silence. I'm sorry you have to watch. Look away, if you want. It's almost over.
My literary wings are weak. I'm afraid of heights. Is flying really the thing for me?
Surely there's an appropriate cut off for this metaphor. Like is drawn to like, in a Dantean kind of way.
I'd craft an envoi, but, in a way, I already have. Isn't it amazing how many words it takes to say very little?
I'll try again later,
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