I base my entire life, every step I take, every move I make, around the idea that I am not good enough. That I will fall where others fly, and fail where no one else has before. I breathe worry and exhale doubt. I cannot write. I cannot cook. I cannot sing. I am not smart. I am not funny. I am not pretty. I am not good enough. And when I fail, I think, who cares, and, who ever expected otherwise? And when I succeed it still comes as no surprise...because it's all been done before. Of course. Why. Why. Why should I be proud. Why. Why. Why do I bother. They could do it better. They laugh, and know they could do better.
I don't write, because I'm afraid of how the words will read. Not beautiful. Not poetic. Not witty or even comprehensive to the slightest extent. Boring and drab and running on and on...so far on without any meaning to them. They. Are. Not. Good. Enough.
Which is quite a thing to think, because "good" is reachable, enjoyable, there. "Enough" just implies that it's acceptable, fine, okay. I am not acceptable. My words are not acceptable. They all enjoy them, except me. How could they ever accept me? My creativity's in the middle of a drought, not enough joy to wash its way out, and if there was there'd be floods and landslides and it'd still be a mess to clean. Delete, delete, because that's not what I wanted to say. That's not how it should be! Nothing is ever how it should be: Good. Enough. Is that enough? It's never enough when you've a few hundred words and not a full idea; past your limit yet needing to publish if only to save. Your. Sanity.
But I'll be finished now because looking at this words (not proofread or COMPREHENSIBLE dear God) I see that I've written enough. And you? Will you
never
have
enough?
