I feel that the ideas that matter most to me are trapped within. I fear that the ideas I’ve always wished to write are still unwritten. I feel that lately what I write and say, at least what I have been, means little to me later. I feel as though I am not being as honest as I’d like to be. As of now, I believe the stories I’ve dreamed of writing have yet to come. I am still expecting the words, my mind conceiving them, my mind softening to them. The stories I have yet to write are like children; they do not belong to me, but when I am satisfied, they will contain something of me and speak to someone other than myself.
I think I’ll take the risk of writing, even if that means
failing stumbling for now with the stories I dream of writing.
I feel that the most meaningful, dazzling words I have not yet written in my stories will someday rise from me, fresh and illumined, and I will know that they are true. As I write these words, I think I can smell them coming like the way one may smell the rain before it begins to drizzle, and now I wish for their rain, for their honest arrival.