Self-Mutilation

Empty box.

Blinking cursor.

Racing thoughts.

"Ooh, that could be good..."

Twenty words tapped out.

Stop... Think...

"Nahh, too _____."

Press and hold "delete."

*sigh*

Repeat.

This is what happens every single time I come here. I still care too much. I still hide within the walls of self-consciousness and timidity. I still find it petrifying to release my thoughts. Never eloquent enough. Never impressive enough. Never mature enough. Never written well enough. Never acceptable.

I get inspired by the words of others, almost to the point of action, and then I am utterly crushed by intimidation.

It hurts. It hurts to try and fail, or to feel inferior even when you know that anything that is done well by another has in some way been developed, nurtured and improved, whether by intention or subconscious habit. That knowledge has rarely been enough for me. Something is keeping me from believing it and I have yet to discover what it is exactly, but I must find it. I've grown tired of being crippled by my own irrational trepidation. I need to be freed. I need to be careless to a certain degree.

Let water flow from the deepening cracks in this prematurely aged stone.