I Hope it Dies

Why is this so hard for me now? Why am I so afraid?
There was a time I sat down in front of this silly contraption... often bleary-eyed from too much living and too little sleep, sometimes bored senseless and eager to find something/anything to occupy my time... and I would write for hours. Poetry, prose, love notes, confessions, jibberish.

And I was happy. I would come back and re-read what I'd written... editing mistakes I'd made in the fever of getting it all out... eager to see what (if anything) my friends had to say in response. But mostly elated that I'd done it.

Now, I think daily of sitting here (or anywhere) to write. To process through all the amazing people, places, and things I've experienced and grown to love of late. Things flitting about that memory part of my brain. Things growing paler as I neglect to make them permanent. And daily I convince myself there isn't time. There aren't any words. What if no one else cares?

Yet, never has there been a time in my life that I have so desperately determined to hold onto... a time I hope to one day chronicle... a time I scarcely believe I'm really experiencing. So why, for the first time in years, have I refused to sit down and keep track of these simple but extraordinary happenings... to share them with you and keep them safe and tangible for me?

What is it I'm afraid of? What keeps me from sitting still... quieting my anticipation and tranquilizing my restlessness... and taking a few moments to say some stuff and store some thoughts?

Whatever it is... I hope it dies. And I sort of hope it's painful.
It deserves it.