I am creative in a way I cannot prove. It is unacceptable to approach a stranger and declare:
“I lay awake at night, almost always.
I take the burden of the universe upon my shoulders each evening before I can sleep and when I awake it is still there.
I want to grasp ahold of life and shake out its secrets but grasping anything is for me impossible.
I understand too much and talk too much and believe too much.
I am socially awkward and have a hard time responding to things.
I overanalyze and speculate.
I care very deeply about many things.
I cry much too easily.
I want love so badly I can’t breathe sometimes.
I want someone to peer into me and see my messy contents and be okay with it.
People have described me as coolheaded but inside I am enraged and inarticulate.
I cannot explain my exact feelings in words, so I peck at the keys and hope that a story emerges.
I am embarking on a brand new adventure and I am terrified.”
They would run from me in fear, if I said such things.

A million ways to say one thing.
Maybe one feeling fractured into a million emotions.
Or perhaps the other way around.

I am scared.
I am so terribly frightened.
That I’ll fail--seemingly legitimate, yes?
Fear of failure stops even the surest of hearts.
But I am not sure. I am not strong.
I am the weakest of the weak.
I do not know whether to continue in my fear,
or bask in my pride.
Both are poisonous
but a middle line
seems
like
a
tightrope.