Epically Stalling

There is a story that lives within me that I have longed to tell. It breathes in soft sighs under my skin, echoing in the tips of my fingers. It is the tale of undoing, of unbecoming, of a world that must shatter so that truth, and light can come pouring back in. It is the story that plays with the idea that history is written by the winners, but what if the winners were really the villains? 

Here is a small excerpt:

“The small narrow stairs that she had painstakingly built with her own hands, blood, sweat, and tears over many years - repairs from the devastating war that had left her desolate and in rubble, now shattered like iron striking glass beneath her quaking feet at the words that flowed from his lips - so simple and eloquent, yet sharp and unforgiving. And it was her own folly - for what foolish man builds his house on the sand as she had? What fool trusts in the promises of tarnished shards of mirrors? The tears, which were not for her, but for his own pathetic demise, sizzled against the gaping wounds upon her countenance. The so-called remorse was bitterly fleeting - trauma healed upon an hour of the band-aid being applied. The fiery pain roared, shriveling into dust and ash the small relic which had been her vulnerability and security, and as she shrank into that familiar blackness, the void of comfort which had been her prison, it became all too clear that the very pit she had built herself to get out of had never deceived her as the light had - did not play a game of shadows hiding dreadful and ugly things - it at least was honest in its depravity. That she could accept. That made more sense than a world that looks so beautiful but is full of charming deadly things. There were no questions of existence in this pit - not even the faint echo of I told you so. There was no judgement. There was no condemnation. There were no lies. There were only  the walls, the darkness, and the silence. It was a perfect prison, and one which she hoped, at least for the most part, that she would never be freed”

This story sits, with small portions written here and there, waiting on me. I have made so many excuses: I don’t have time, I’ll get to it, I’m not inspired. But if I’m really, truly, gut wrenchingly honest with myself, and with you - I haven’t finished it because I don’t really believe in myself. I am in my own way, second guessing, and not fully stepping into my dream to write. At the slightest bit of success I almost pull back, as if I am not worthy of owning this piece of myself and sharing it with others. 

I don’t really know what to do with all of that. But I do hope that I will get out of my own way and finish this story and own the fact that I am, a writer, simply for the very fact, that I write.