It’s 9:50am and I’m still in bed. Guess that’s very much fine on a Sunday morning.
I’ve been sitting here for at least 20 minutes now, stearing at the wall so intently you’d think it’s only a moment of time before my gaze breaks through.
Simply put, these morning pages terrify me.
Not because of their blankness -I have no problem filling them once I get going- but because I’m so scared of what will come out of me.
Once I put pen to paper there’s no stopping the roaring outpouring of words, and once it’s out, it’s out.
Once I clearly see it, black on white, there’s no more denying whatever it is I’ve been trying to hide from
and that in turn marks the end to this blissful state of self-inflicted oblivion I’ve been living in.
Not to worry- in the grand scheme of things, everything really is alright.
You’re even allowed to call me dramatic. But that doesn’t change the fact that lately, I’ve been numbing and ignoring for a living and that now, this reconnecting with and reviving of all of me feels like stepping out on ice so thin that it might, without warning, give way any second and swallow me whole.
This drowning in myself -state is a familiar one, but I don’t think it will ever cease to be overwhelming.
I know this is exactly where I need to be, but I hate feeling this out of control. This vulnerable. This confused. I like to be comfortable, dammit.
I like to keep my feet on the ground, just to be on the safe side of things, and now I’m standing in a high up place, ready to push all my marbles off the edge and then jump after, just to find out where they will land.
I guess this is the time to overcome my fear of falling.