Burst of Bellowing

An acknowledgement of weakness is perhaps one of the greatest obstacles we are confronted with in our lives. Instilled within most is the sense of pushing forward to the detriment of reflection, and in doing so a person can reach their goal realizing that they sacrificed their time for mere pennies of satisfaction. What’s more pathetic are those that are at the beginning; as they look to the path ahead they absorb the different obstacles and come to a conclusion that they must prepare, they must understand, they must think. This preparation is as deadly as ignorance to some, transforming into paralysis.

“I can’t do this yet, I have to make sure the map for my journey accounts for everything I could encounter.”

“I have to be better, so I need to be sure that each moment is something I can handle. I need to take my time.”

“I can’t see myself making the journey without knowledge; I have to use all my energy to tackle these obstacles.”

“I can’t write yet; I am not ready yet”

So we come to weakness. My weakness. My frustration.

Drafts dated months prior, a last post close to a year old. A constant battle where each sentence is made with the intent to make emotion, force emotion. How great my jealousy (for it is a jealousy) that the people I consider fondly through their own struggles have grasped onto the strength that even now is my weakness. My genuine joy at their success is marred by the ever present voice that claws out, the angry little bastard that stares at a white background.

Empty.

Remaining Empty.

Never finished.

“You could do this too, if you were better.”

So I stopped thinking. Even this moment is a flight of fancy, almost a distraction within my own life. I love when I feel in writing, and I love when I see the fruits of others labor, however harsh the voice afterward. My weakness as it stands now is as insidious as it is simple.

Write. Write, and accept the slurring of your thoughts. Write, and take what is simple and let it be simple and clean. Write, and love that you can breathe and write at the same time. Write, and recognize that no person on the earth creates perfection. Write, and love the imperfect but emotionally crushing stories which filled with their holes are more intact then any crafted paragraph.

Write. And apologies that it took so long to get here again.

I will write again, even if the letters are stained with imperfect effort.