with a dreamy, far-off look, and her nose stuck in a book
i feel that old, familiar, sinking feeling rise up through my veins, slowly taking over my nervous system and drowning any trace of my true self. affirmations are quieted with self loathing, and impenetrable fear. yesterday i refused to let anxiety be the victor. i knew i had to fight back. annihilate the voice i heard at the soft spot of my temples. the carping voice screamed, “give up! stop now! you are not a writer!” i needed allies, an army to debilitate the doubt. i hopped in the car and drove, unsure of where i was headed. almost on autopilot, i found myself among my comrades at the bookstore. the smell of the pages welcomed me home. i sat on the floor leafing through pages, one by one. running my fingers over lines of text, i imagined the pain, joy, and triumph the author felt as he birthed each paragraph. i made my selections and silently thanked the writers who came before me for so eloquently documenting their struggles and uncertainties.