I think that’s what I should have called my blog. That’s what I feel like lately. Confused, overwhelmed, and just waiting to be devoured by a sharp toothed predator that smells my vulnerable naivete from miles away.
I think of myself as a writer. It has become how I identify myself and I do it with pride and a smile and a genuine sense of finding my own little niche in the world…
…and yet I don’t feel like I have earned that title.
Somewhere along the journey of self realization I decided that writers are brilliant, creative majestic beings that I could never compete with on an intellectual or professional scale.
I’ve now learned that there is a vast sea of dreamers hacking away at keyboards all chasing the same dream I have been after. Literally thousands of people who want the same thing I do. I can hear Tyler Durden screaming in the grungy corners of my psyche: “You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake.”
And I get discouraged without even taking that leap into the shark pool. I am the zen master of self fulfilled prophecies because I am downright terrified into submission and forget to even try.
I want to lock away all the grotesque knowledge of reality I have acquired and guard it with an acid spitting dragon.
Then maybe I can go back to my sandbox and build beautiful castles with my imaginary friends again.