I Want To Be a Writer

I want to see the world through fresh artistic eyes and capture it on paper. I want to see deep meaning in the world and share it with others. I want to be able to thread words together and make them flow, like a brush across a canvas. I want my words to have power. I want them to speak from my very heart and soul, and have them reverberate the hidden truths of the world. I want my words to mean something. I want my words to touch people, move people, make people feel.

But I can't.

I'm afraid.

My fingers tremble before the blank sheet before me. For upon this pure white page, there lies an incredible, untapped potential. The possibility for something great. And that terrifies me. The ideas that swirled around in the whirlwind of my mind could be the inspiration for works of genius. Or wasted on mediocrity. Beautiful, colourful ideas that will slowly die and fade, because I have trapped them in insignificant words... 

...because I could not find the words to express them properly. 

This fear grips my heart and brings me to tears. How can I possibly write when all I would be doing is condemning ideas to death? How can I possibly write when the words will merely lie in a colourless abyss? How can I possibly write?

Perhaps... I should just give up.

And yet, in my heart, the burning desire remains. The desire to create and express, to inspire and be inspired.

So I push past the fear and grasp onto hope. Because if my words do not live on through the ages, if they are not as beautiful as the ideas that they try to express, even if they forever remain unheard by any living soul, it does not matter.

...because they will be real to me.