Slippery Fish

The world waits. It needs me to do my part. But my head aches and my heart pounds with worry. I feel my breath race out from me. Not enough returns. I want so much. I feel like it is out of reach. I worry that I made mistakes. Too many to count. Why do I panic? Why do I feel as though time is a slippery fish? I cannot grab hold. How long have I barely kept control? So long. Too long. I want peace. I want freedom. I want the life I dream about.

How do I get it? I write. I think this is the answer. I write because writing is a way to make money. It will help me free myself and my family from the hole we have dug. Why else? I write because I want people to look at me the way I imagine they will when I tell them I am a writer—scratch that, an author. I write because I can write well. I have words in my soul. So many words. They pour out of me, even when there is no one to hear them. I have stories. Heartache. Hurt. I can tell stories to which other people can cling. I can tell stories that help other people to make sense of their senseless lives. I will tell the stories that have helped me to know who I am.

But, it is harder than I thought. The world waits. It is not patient. It cannot be ignored. There is little time. There is even less peace. I panic because time swims away. It evades my grasp. When I snatch it back, little pieces at a time, I panic more. I worry that my words are lame. I worry that my stories are lifeless.

Can I do this? Do you believe in me? I ask this one-hundred times a day. Yes. The answer is always yes. It would never be no. But, how? I don’t ask that. No one knows that answer. I ache with longing. Somewhere below my stomach (my gut?) a slow burn continues to stoke itself. It never goes out. It just heats my belly. It causes me to remember. I cannot forget. I cannot give up. I am worried.

I pray for answers. I pray for strength. I pray for peace. I will continue to pray for those things.