Does the proverbial tree in the forest make a sound if there’s nobody around to hear it?  I’m starting to feel the same way about me and my writing.  Can I call myself a writer if no one’s around to actually read my work?

But writing is scary.  It’s personal and telling, and intimate.  You write about your feelings, your insecurities, all your deep and dark thoughts that you can’t seem to share with anyone else.  Those are the kinds of things you write down.  And I’m just supposed to share them with everyone?

What if people read what I write and think it’s bad?  What if I want to be a writer but I’m not good enough.  Who’s to say that anyone’s even interested in what I have to say?

But I’m getting old.  And those dreams that you aspire to as a kid, or those dreams that are just that, dreams, are starting to become a reality.  Or at least I’m at the age where I’m supposed to make those dreams a reality.  Or attempt to.

I don’t tend to get inspired by anything.  I’m not particularly motivated to do anything unless I have an incentive.  I write when I’m getting marked.  I exercise (not very often) to stay fit (or appear to look somewhat fit).  I Instagram pictures of myself to get validation on my looks.  And we all do it for that reason whether we’re willing to admit it or not.  I’ve forgotten what it’s like to do something for the pure enjoyment of it.  But I felt like there was a point that I needed to commit to this.  To being a writer, to opening myself up, and attempting to do something – be something.  Even if I fail.

So be gentle with me.

One thought on “anxiety.

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