I have a secret daydream where I get savagely fired, my financial security shattered, so I can finally chase my deepest desires and fears. I don’t know why it has to happen this way in my inner world where I make the rules. Why not write now, without having all of my walls coming down around me? Maybe that’s it – there are walls everywhere, and without a visible door I am compelled to tear down every last stone. Surely, I can figure out how to carve a door? Or dig a tunnel? Or climb?
I’m always writing, writing for this assignment and that project and writing an email detailing my greatest strengths and my “weaknesses” that are spun to make me seem better. I’m in a bizarre circus and writing is my tightrope stunt. I write for praise, academic acclaim, money, even. Balancing between passivity and aggressiveness, wearing a costume of beautiful prose. But then I step off the ladder after the cheers quiet. Why was I up there? I think to myself.
I have always loved reading. The escape and the beautiful places I’ve been in my mind palace and the characters who don’t shrink themselves to fit in. The surge of inspiration after reshelving my latest reality-vacation. Books shape and contort who I am, changing the lens on my fantasies.
And perhaps that is why I am here, writing.
But who will read my writing? Who will cheer me on? I told myself to write for myself. To express and to grow and to love. Shouldn’t this venture set me free from the circus, the costume, and the watching eyes? It’s too bad that I love watching eyes.
This was written by our contributing writer, Kiersten Hardy.
Image Source: Pexels, Daka
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