“Are you ok?” worry infusing each word.

Perplexed, “I’m fine”.

“Well, I read your blog.”

Mind racing, screaming silently, “What alarm was triggered?”

“Oh, that was just….” and I provided context – the trickling, incessant daily minutia eroding joy, its rubble blocking light and air.

For years, scribblings have been furtive – stashed in drawers, boxes, guarded, inaccessible. Judged inadequate, self-indulgent, and valueless by author and reader wrapped into one.

And now, this.

Exposed  (published !?) on the web.

Outing myself as wannabe writer.

Trusting that this part of me – only recently witnessed by my one love, friends, and strangers – will not wither in the light.

Fearing that my judgments of inadequacy are accurate.

Praying that such damnation is wrong.

Scribbling furtively and furiously, still.

No worries, I won’t quit my day job.

© CMD 2015


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