Too much thinking has been happening and much less doing, lesser writing. A thought would give way for two weeks, only to be replaced by another despondent thought. This can't go on.
I need to feel free to write, to err. I must keep working, keep going on..perhaps all this is in the discovery of the self, if nothing more. I observe too much (or so I feel) I see too much and a conflict of thought is always in wait. It never bothered me before, but now it cripples me and weighs on me instead of setting me free. Even if one were to know one is a devil inside, the 'knowledge' of it must be liberating, no? May be not. All knowledge is not good. Or it could be that I am not ready to face myself yet. I might never be. And that is also perfectly fine, I want to tell myself. These chinks of self-doubt debilitate me.
At times like these I think of the old self. Where so much commotion was there and because everything was happening for the first time I had the heart and the courage to face all of it. I knew nothing better than that. There was no real fear of falling or failing. I wasn't even thinking on those terms. I was earnest, yes and in that earnestness I would grill myself too. But I was not so conscious in expression. I was free from myself, my own bitter censure.
And so here I am. Making this effort to write. To talk to myself once again. To make me speak to me. To make a fool of me, if need be.
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