I feel I am growing cantankerous. I feel I am growing cynical and grumpy – crotchety, even – though I don’t want to be a sour-faced hag that no one can stand.
I fear I am losing my smile, and maybe my mind. I fear that all that I write is a load of self-indulgent tripe, that no matter how much time, how much effort I commit to improvement, it will never be enough – that I will never be enough.
But I want.
I want so much to feel free from fear, to move people with my words the way others’ words have moved me, to be relatable and relevant and enough. I want my smile back, I want to share it with the world, because the world could use a little positive energy and I delight in making others happy.
Still, I fear.
I fear it will not happen, that the world in its chaos and despair will rob me of the positivity I seek to impart. I fear I will never again be the bright spot in someone’s day, that each and every fear I have will come to terrible fruition.
I feel trapped by my fear, trapped by my choices, trapped by the world at large. I feel like nothing will ever change, like life is a circle with no beginning and no end, just an endless, dragging, joyless march toward nothing in particular.
I do not want that. I fear it’s true, and I fear its truth, and I fear what I want makes no difference.
I feel and I fear, I want and I fear and I feel. But mostly, I fear.
Don’t we all?
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