I go through great lengths to avoid getting to know you. Yet there you are, unequivocally yourself, and I keep choosing not to see you.

Why? You ask. Fear, I respond. Fear that if I truly saw you, after all this time, I would hate what I see and hate myself for it.

It doesn’t matter who you choose

As long as you choose them for them

And allow them to choose you for you

I thought writing would be easy if I only found the time. Now with all the time in the world, writing feels like open heart surgery. Literally and figuratively.

Inspiration comes to me sometimes as a loud banging in my head that does not go away. Other times as a elusive whisper that I can hardly decode. But most of the times, it doesn’t come at all. It stays hidden underneath layers of fear and regret. To me, writing feels like digging.