(A while ago when I discovered one of my first drafts)
I stare at the pages trying my hardest not to cringe at them. These are, after all, my first drafts, this is how all started some time ago. And although I feel nostalgic just to look at them, I can’t help but feel ashamed. Yes, ashamed. You’ll see, in these pages, every word is cramped in the middle of meaningless sentences. They are all forced to fit in the already crowded text to “complete” an “idea.” They just don’t go together. They (the words) want to run away and hide in a faraway land, but my iron-will has trapped them forever in these absurd lines.
They (the words) want to run away and hide in a far away land
These pages lay in my hand proving and showing, for the whole world to see, my mediocrity and lack of skill. These pages are the tangible proof of what I fear the most: I am not a talented writer.
I dwell on this thought for a moment, and voices from the past come to burn my psychic with their hollow premonitions.
These pages are the tangible proof of what I fear the most
I take a deep breath while looking the pages I still hold in my hand, and I tell myself not to worry, because I have walked this path before. I remind myself that I know what to do. And the first thing to do is not to escape from this fear but to face it. And by doing so, I take the power from it because I overcome it, and it's at this moment when what I fear the most becomes my motivation to keep going. And against my best judgment, I put the pages back in the drawer where I found them, I take a moment to let my feelings settle down a little, and I start typing again. And the relentless sound of the keyboard scare the voices away leaving room for hope and light.