Putting Myself on Pause

You're only a writer if you write. And I haven't been a writer for the past few months. Instead I've become a worrier. Excessively worrying about all things big and small. And it has done damage, from the tear stains left to linger on my cheeks to an ever growing void that I cannot fill.

I am a master now of being in-between. And even though I try to get a feeling for where I'm going, I keep looking over my shoulder to see where I've already been. And it's hard not to blur the lines between the present and the past when so much depends on having a future.

But maybe there is no future to be had. Maybe all of this is just a whole bunch of something for nothing. And nothing is guaranteed save for the theory of cause and effect and our reactions to it.

Betting everything can mean losing everything. And a true gambler knows their odds before placing their bet. There is no such thing as a sure thing. No false sense of safety. There is only chance. The randomness of possibilities. The sweet call of victory and the low cry of defeat. It cannot be avoided.

Just as I cannot avoid my feelings of uncertainty even though I know it would be in my best interest to keep my mouth shut. To say nothing. To wait. To stop pushing. But I can't seem to shut up. I am manipulated by my own fears. Words, thoughts and images that tumble around in my head questioning the giant world of everything. Whispering to me a need for answers. Proof of my worth.

I can't explain myself in a way that makes sense. And for the life of me I can't make sense of myself. I only know that I am the cause I'm reacting to.