Anxiety riddles my bones as I ponder the thought of going outside, I fear the world perhaps. Even the sweetest invitations give me a ping of distress; I am not sure what it is whether it is the social aspect or the responsibility of getting there. I let something so dangerous eat me alive as I lay restless in my bed at night too shaken to act upon my personal struggle, fear. I dream of living in a large gothic mansion, with a writing career, content. The silent ping stabs me in the chest reminding me of my anxieties. I try to ignore these alarms; they keep me awake at night and have taken so many opportunities from me. I am tired of being fearful, but I am afraid to try. Writing is solitude I feel a sense of freedom, letting my fears dissipate into nothingness. I’m no longer afraid. To feel that way for a moment is everything.
The thirst for recognition is universal, we all want to be recognized for our great successes. Writing has been my only solace from the day to day stresses of life. I have so many stories, ideas pent up inside or barely actualized in a half written script. The frustration of incompleteness is unavoidable and causes me great grief and restlessness. I want to these scripts complete! For these stories to be actualized and my characters to lift off the page into existence! Procrastination lures around the corner like a leech pretending to be both a friend and foe. Some of my best ideas are sucked from the venom of procrastination, but otherwise I stare off into space hoping for something to contextualize while I avoid procrastination like the plague. Promising to write a page or two while my characters roll their eyes at me like “sure yeah, I’ve been waiting what 4 years?!” I’m sorry my little creations I’m doing the best I can. There is essentially nothing I can do it seems until these stories are complete. My characters drive me to tell their stories and as their mother, I can’t refuse. So thus, I lose myself again in their worlds, while I still feel lost in my own.