skitsofrenia

I wonder if I made the most of my opportunities.
I look at others and I become a strange mixture of anger and shame and guilt and envy and some other things akin to snobbishness.
Yet I look at them and I am not really any of these things, I am curious.
How did you get there and I am here? What did you do? Who did you know? It seems like we were at the same place, we knew the same people, we had the same time and space and ability yet you are there and I am here? How is that, how did it come to be?
I watch and read about the lives of co workers, contemporaries and I shrug: What is this fuckery ‘blogging’? Any jackass with an opinion and a rudimentary knowledge of the internet can blast any jackassness onto the web to be captured for an eternity in all its celluloid splendor.
That was bitter. I know. I hate myself a little for saying it. Just a little.
I feel a crippling fear about my ability to match up when everyone who’s ever had a profoundly original thought or an utterly ridiculous one can simply click their way into mainstream consciousness. Is there any room for me? Are my thoughts original enough, or profound enough or intelligent enough or, Goddammit, even enough to warrant anyone taking time out of their multi-million-tasking day to read and ingest a snippet of what I’ve worked my whole life to build?
It terrifies me to think that this urgency I have to be heard and this supposed gift I believe I was anointed with would be ignored or, worse yet, ridiculed. It terrifies me even more to do nothing and let the fear win, let the gift be squandered.
I am free when I write. I am remade when I write. I am honest and good and made whole when life’s ‘everything-elses’ keep taking away little parts of me.
Writing will save you. Writing will set you free. I have to keep telling myself to breath... and just write.