When given the opportunity to write something, I invariably draw a blank. Far too much freedom. Especially when saddled with the anxiety of considering what other people may think. Do they like it? Is it trivial? Does it belie some aspect of myself that I’ve kept hidden away for fear of judgment?

I’ve spent a good deal of my life trying to be what other people want me to be. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn’t. But it has left me this contorted, twisted semblance of a person. Bits and pieces patched together like a metaphysical Frankenstein’s monster, awkward and lumbering…naive. Every move, deliberate, thoroughly thought out and agonized over. Right leg forward, now left leg. Swing your arms. Nod and smile. Now laugh. Breathe.

Honestly, it’s all worked out well by most measures. And yet…