I’m staring at this first blank page of my journal and I am so afraid of ruining it. They’re just words. Just words, yet the anxiety is slowly building. This isn’t exactly the first blank page of this book. There have been maybe five or ten first blank pages of this one, pages I’ve torn out. But I like this journal. It’s pink with gold polka dots on it and it says “Be Happy, Be Bright, Be You” on the front. It’s hardcover, rather thick in size and has college ruled pages, which is something I adore. I love this book and yet I am afraid to write in it.
I’ve started reading a new book, one that I received through the mail as part of a giveaway. I’m only four chapters in and I’ve already convinced myself that I could write something better than this, except, really can I? If I can, it hasn’t produced itself yet. All I have are hundreds of blog posts to show for my writing, half-finished story ideas that make me cringe. Ramblings about loneliness and wishes of love and frustration at not being able to write- all words that also make me cringe. This blog post is making me cringe, I’ve said the same things so many times before.
I want to share something personal, I want to tell you something real, yet who am I to be able to differentiate between what is real and what is not? I am a dreamer. I could tell you about my dreams, but I hardly remember them and the ones that I do remember are frightening. By this I don’t mean horror movie frightening, not even horrors-from-my-past-frightening. I can’t remember the last time I dreamt about those days. My dreams are painfully embarrassing, they expose my uncomfortably vulnerable side- the side of me that I try so desparately to keep hidden and that leave me in a perpetual state of exhaustion. I believe my subconscious wipes them clean every morning to save myself the discomfort when I look in the mirror to apply my makeup.
Eventually I’ll run out of room on this site and I’ll be faced with a decision. I have three options I think- dump some of my older posts, upgrade my site, or stop blogging altogether. I’m so afraid I’ll choose to stop blogging. I’ll convince myself that my words aren’t enough and I’ll start again with the journal page ripping sessions. Not that this would be a complete tragedy. Writing is writing, I suppose. It’s not the destination that matters the most, it’s the journey, right?