Not certain at all
I’m not even certain I know how to write any more.
I used to write all the time; I have journals with words and words jotted freely, loosely, like marbles I let roll out of a bag. Perhaps my bag is empty, or perhaps my need is more for a new bag.
Regardless, the idea of letting loose ideas, like wild things being freed from a cage, allows trepidation to act as a tie-down.
In my life though, I have never let fear reign. I am born the same day as Evel Knievel and so long as I know how far the distance is, I will jump. I have an audacious faith that if I do not land the jump, then I will sprout wings and be softly returned to the effects of gravity. I will not crash. I will not succumb. And, in the event I do not gauge the situation accurately, which invariably happens, I will sit and evaluate, then tend to my wounds and remember that I have an awesome healing capacity, as all beings do.
The tie-down of fear then is just that: strings. I know strings in the regard that I know how to tie and untie knots, how to make frayed ends submit to going through a bead-hole, and how much pressure to use to cut.
Perhaps the string I need to cut is the one holding my fresh bag of ideas closed. Despite not knowing what may roll out, despite the big-fat-scary that will eventually wash over me, despite not knowing how far the jump is, here I go, cutting the string of uncertainty and jumping in to the writing.
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