The resistance is there.
The foggy feeling of not knowing is there.
Feeling like I’m an imposter who has arrogantly assumed the role of a writer and an ‘advice-giver’ is there.
The guilt at working from home, avoiding the daily commute is there.
The shame of barely meeting anyone new because of a solitary life is there.
The second-guessing if I should have done something more ‘sensible’ and less ‘arty’ and more lucrative is there.
The stiffness in my fingers and the rumbling of nerves in my chest is there.
The pull to want to go outside into the sunshine, or the sea, or to feel the wind in my hair on a jeep in Africa is there.
The sleepiness; the sense of ‘burn out,’ is there.
The resentment I feel for there being no one to be here to cheer me on is there.
The sense of needing to escape is there.
These feelings and ideas sit on me like a heavy reptilian shell.
I unstrap the straps that hold the weight down. I take a deep breath. I needn’t fix these thoughts. I don’t react to these emotions.
When my shadowy ego begs me to react, to throw out my toys, and to assume my rightful place as the poor, precious victim that I am…
…all I need to do is defy and create.
I turn to what’s in front of me, regardless.
And I begin.