I think I’ve been waiting to write something revolutionary.

Something that brings tears to the masses and healing to the few. Something that makes it so that I’m finally understood, known within and without, and before having to share too much.

I’ve been staring at blinking cursors and blank pages, napkins and paper bags, receipts and rationed sticky notes. Wishing my words would write themselves, wishing I could take what I’m feeling and rid myself of it in blue or black ink. Like Jenna with her pies, like Campbell with her routines, like Natalie and her compositions.

Sliced and served away worries sounds good right about now. Better than good.

And my worries are almost frivolous. They have nothing to do with me and everything to do with others. What others will say to me, what others will make me do, what others schedules and needs and wants and dreams are looking like.

What my mother wants, what my brother needs, what my sister craves, if I can borrow the car next Saturday, if he’ll get mad because I tell him the truth or what she’ll think if I revisit the subject of sophomore year just one more time.

If anyone and everyone ever gets sick of listening to me go on about the same things, and if that’s the reason that they’ve stopped asking.

The fear that I’ve worn someone out with all of my words is exactly what has kept me from writing any.

I’ve been waiting for them to feel important enough to share, and so far I’ve got nothing.

Just complaints that sounds like diary entries and cries that I know should probably be for help.

But I’ve been alright. How are you?


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