I contain a rational fear. A fear that engulfs.
Underneath all I am is the fear of failure.
I’m not aware if people even read these journal entries?
I observe my writing tonality from above and see it as if I’m always writing in front of an audience. Writing on a stage like an orchestra. Performing different chords, different historical pieces by Beethoven and Mozart. Theatrics that are genuine, and alive.
Standing on a stage, I wait for a standing ovation. The audience rises, clapping their hands. I remove my cylindrical top hat and present them a bow.
The theater curtains slowly close in. The stage lighting above dims to darkness. I recover from a bowed stance, standing in silence. In this specific moment, I am an artist. Shrouded from the crowd and their critique.
They applaud a performance that exists only on the surface, the true art lies beneath. In truth, self-expression is confidential.
In self-contemplation, the fear strikes like a drum. Afraid of what other people will think.
Afraid of what people will have to say about my own story. Afraid to be judged, and scared to put in the work. A fear of too many words and thinking too big. A story that won’t articulate easy from mind to paper.
Failure eats away in more than just one way. Scouring the internet for suggestions on how to continue writing, I encounter all the complicated feelings. Invigorating insecurities. Revealing the demonic emotions that are enigmatic with their chastising words of doubt.
In the next few months, I’ll try to remain quiet about my project. Not granting myself the satisfaction that it is already done. A project that is deeply personal. I don’t care for the acceptance or recognition of others.
I care to tell a story.
I burden to tell this story.
This perplexity of trying to structure paragraphs of a past. A past that often eludes.