I always wonder if JK Rowling or Hunter S Thompson wrote a sentence down and had the thought: “that is so stupid”. I have had so many thoughts that seem like the most profound, deep, familiar, uniting genius that I cannot whip my phone fast enough to write down: and as soon as my thoughts transfer to fingers it becomes the stupidest most boring trite statement on the planet. Devoid of depth and emotion and full of triviality and obviousness. But yet- they wrote. And so do I- despite the doubt. Despite the fear that I’m ordinary and shallow and unoriginal. It’s that fear that paralyzes you and simultaneously keeps you going. The scale of seeming genius and importance and relevance and eloquence teetering slowly back and forth until it tips towards stagnant devastation or towards the imperative tips of my fingers on the screen.