No, I don’t either.
Maybe a little, vaguely.
Remember when the words flowed easily from the darkest corners of my mind, almost effortlessly they would find their way out through the tips of my fingers as they tapped furiously and passionately upon the keys creating seamless works of art, line after line, paragraph after paragraph, page after page?
It seems like it was lifetimes ago. Sometimes I’m not even sure whether it was real or something I just imagined happening. Then I come across an old notebook or other tidbit from those days — and remember clearly that there was a time when I was bursting forth with unbridled creativity and had no care as to what affect those words might play in my life.
Now I’m just constantly riddled with “what if” issues. What if my kids read this? What if my family reads it? What if people think I’m awful? What if no one gets it? What if no one likes it?
I hate having so many anxiety issues. I really do. It’s the most stifling thing in the world. Crippling, honestly.