I really believed before this, that the reason why I didn’t write was because I had no time. But that wasn’t it at all. Because really? I was scared.

It’s hard feeling so vulnerable to the open world. Some days I just sit in front of my laptop and my mind wanders. Other days I’ll write something about my life, but delete it at the last minute. But the most common thing that happens is that I would write and rewrite until the person I'm writing about becomes unrecognizable, and my fingers would paralyze in a passing moment. I would imagine all the people who aren’t into me standing in a stiff line whispering my scandalous secrets under their breath. And then you stop yourself from writing, or tell yourself that there are better things that can be done with your time, that you need more inspiration, more thoughts, more something. And pretty soon those feelings snowball, and you’re left with a wealth of excuses and countless drafts of the same ideas.

I’m not sure why I’m bringing this up, maybe because it can get suffocating living in that bubble. You can’t write something meaningful unless you’re willing to be yourself. In the end the only thing we can do is to be brave.