It is almost ridiculous that I take this path, under the heavy title of “writer,” afraid and quiet in the wake of my own thoughts. Through the dark places and doubt, through every writer’s cliché of suffering, I have nothing of spine and less of words. Every private fear fodder for ink, yet vaulted tightly against my own ambitions.
Coming clean, I would say that I am less of a writer and more of an observer to the written words that maze their way to my fingertips. The lucky words that mouse their way out of the obscure traps I line, the creaking wooden steps to the hope of my thoughts riddled with the broken necks of metaphors and simile.
It is not the world that creates a blockade; it is the things that make my world. Where there is sun in spring, and yellow-green hellos; there is me, crippled with fear that has begun to eat acidly through my fingers.
Is this writing the sun under a clouded eastern sky? We shall see if I rise with it or stay in perpetual night.
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