Terminally Internal

I've had this nagging sensation, its like one of those pit of your stomach reactions you learn from a young age. A reaction similar to the first time you have to repeat your one line in the school pageant about cuddly bears that learn the evils of pollution and decide to fight global warming. Except this isn't a pageant and you're not slowly guilt ridden about throwing your juice box into the wrong colored waste bin.

It's the nagging sense of impending failure. That little voice and pit that bores into you every time you try to climb out of the low self esteem well you fell down at some low point in your life.

If I'm trying to look inward, trying to seek a way out of the well, I've had enough experience. It seems natural that once in a well your apt to imaginational sprawl and long nights and days filled with tumultuous epiphanies. 

I once was told that the tarot card that was most expressive of who I am was The Hermit. This became proof positive of a suspicion that maybe I hadn't so much as plummeted down the well I may have been born down there. To an extent of realizing that over half my family dwells in the same musty corridors. 

My hermit ways have trained me well, instead of walking in an external daze of the day to day, I find myself as an intrapersonal voyeur. 

This is probably why I sense the need to write. Like a cerebral masochist, I walk through day to day life making new friends in the form of non-existent entities, taking space up on my memory. Are they brilliant, maybe not so much, are they endearing...not to me. They exist like the noisy neighbors that throw parties on a Monday night.

I get to document their actions safely, at a distance, copying down all their midnight drunken revelations. This makes all the things I write sound more and more like dribble, a confessional diary.

Beyond the realm of psycho-babble exists an entirely all too familiar ground...that nagging little feeling resides there, the same one that causes a million negative thoughts each day.

It says, "you are not a writer, you will fail, rejection awaits you." and this all may be very true, I may be falling even farther down the well with every pretentious word I scribble.

So what am I going to do, what can I do?Somehow it seems all too positively simple to ignore...I'm going to throw my juice box into the blue recyclable bin this time around, because even if I've been riddled with guilt over one past action or time in my, all the choices I've made before this point, I can choose to change my direction now, I can begin ascending the well.

Instead of steadily participating as a psychological wallflower I find it easier to keep writing in the center of the party, undeniably this all sounds like a confessional of a mentally ill person, but aren't all writers working through some kind of mental battlefield when they start out?