I can never finish anything.
It's a curse, really.
To be aware of a gift—a talent—but never have enough steam to quite make it across the proverbial road.
Even now, I struggle to write what I've felt for ages.
Too consumed by the need to make my words enough that I've stunted my own primal need to make things I love for me and myself alone.
The pitfalls of a people-pleaser I guess.
Confident for everyone except my self, and it burns.
I'd not wish this darkness upon even those I majorly dislike.
I digress.
It saddens me, really, but my agony is truly the only proof that the words I have inside me are constructed of some special kind of energy—life.
If not, I'm delusional and using arrogance to cushion my shortcomings.
But...if so, I've faith that, one day—preferably a rainy one—I'll finally conclude all that I've begun.