Mediocre metaphors pervade my writing. Making it all the more obvious how scared I am. Too scared even to reach deep within for something original.  Too scared to push the limits of existence through literature. Perhaps this is it. Perhaps this rudimentary psychoanalysis is just an example of all that I have within. Others. And the love I have for them that forces me to take them inside and make parts of them exude from within me.  Is it their love for me or, mine for them that keeps me alive?