the fear of my to be

i love writing. 

i loved writing.

until i started thinking.

for me, writing was my everything, i think

my way to an escape, my way to a love story, my way to another life.

writing was my raison d'etre - my reason to be

i think i dreamed that one day i would rise and do great things.

i dreamed that one day there would be amazing, beautiful words filling up a blank, hungry piece of paper. 

that those words would be written by me. 

and such potential i had- at least i think (i hope)

i would sit on my bed with a piece of paper ripped out of my bright blue composition notebook and a leaking pen held tight between eager fingers.

i would write and write with no thought to what i was writing

that was my saving grace, i think.

it scares me.

the blankness, the expectation a blank piece of paper has. 

i believed the only reason paper is empty is because it is waiting for something, something worthy, to fill it.

until then, it would remain incomplete, yet perfection in its essence.

writing even one word takes me minutes, hours, sometimes even days. 

i feared i would let down the piece of paper.

so i must satisfy its hunger with only the best, no matter how much time it took.

it takes me weeks to write one page now, when i used to be able to do so in minutes. 

and whenever i open my eyes, look back at that page, regret and dissatisfaction rears its ugly head. 

so i erase all i've written.

with not a trace of what remained behind, not even a hint of the hours and days and weeks and months spent obsessing over a blank page.

i think too much.

the page was never expecting anything- i think (i hope)

and even though to me i seemed to be ruining its potential, using it for my ramblings, that the blank void within it hated me for my incompetence

i must still write and write and not think and not think.

to think- my seven year old self be braver than me!

yes, it is because i think too much. 

i fear not thinking.

i fear writing.

i fear my raison d'etre

i fear my reason to be