Today is one of those days where I’m experiencing a crisis in confidence, a toppling of convictions. I don’t feel very clever or confident. And I can sit here and notice all the facts that prove this.

I don’t know how to type. I’m a hunt and peck writer, shameful. Still haven’t mustered the courage to submit my work outside my comfort zone. You can see my fear, I wear it in a fat suit on the outside of my body,

The facts and the fictional feelings wrestle and create a boggy place in which I am lodged. Where the should and the could duke it out and I’m left breathless from the conflict. I am tarred and feathered and it’s not 10am.

I do see that my aspirations exceed my physical capabilities. If I always aspire to too much, I will always fail. The fact that I do as much as I do is astounding. And that I’m the only one to not see this is tragic.

There is clutter in my corners. There are “too many minds”. And my writing become therapy, becomes meditation, becomes a confession to my humanity. Compassion is headed here, I just need to await it’s arrival.

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