Like spoiled milk

It’s so typical you know. Almost pathetically predictable. Feeling scared of being judged, ridiculed or disliked. The likelihood that I am at best mediocre, dull or without ability. I really want to say talent, but I don’t dare, for fear that someone might actually think that I think that I have any. I really wish I did. Have talent. For anything.

I digress.

Funny that I wrote “that I am at best mediocre”, when what I plan to post in this blog is my writing. And yet. I refer to it as thought it is me. Maybe it is. It could be one of the pieces of asphalt that form the road, stuck together bit by bit, on which I find myself.

Word on the street is that I’m trying to take a new approach to my life. One where I don’t care about the opinions and judgements of others, where I stop doing things because other people think I should, or that make up the ‘smart’ path to take in this occasional joke we call life, and instead live for myself. What a wanker. I may as well start spouting about how we can all change the world, if we only change ourselves first.

Anyway.

There is another, in my opinion more overwhelming, reason that has held me back from starting this blog; there is something incredibly conceited and self obsessed in blogging. As though I honestly think that the shit that spews forth from my mind and onto the page is worth anyone’s time or would hold anyone’s interest.

I would like to believe that my writing would flow onto the page with the smoothness of a hot knife cutting through butter, but in reality I think it would be more like spoiled milk escaping from a carton, rotten stinking clumps plopping out one by one, each more grotesque than the last, forcing their way from captivity into the open for all to see.

The stench of my attempted writing would permeate the air and anyone exposed would wrinkle their nose in distaste, wishing that the milk carton had never been opened but discarded and left to fester alone.

But the last twelve months have taught me something. It’s a lesson I’m still learning and one I sometimes forget. Life is so short and most of the time so pointless. There are so few things I truly care about, and I don’t mean family or friends, those are obvious; I mean things I can do with my time that are utterly for me. One of these things is writing. I love it with all that I am, it is part of me.

I may not have any talent, my writing may be like a bad dancer at the disco that has all the wrong moves and dances to a beat that no one else can hear, embarrassing himself while the cool kids avoid eye contact and laugh. But you know what? Fuck it. Life is fleeting so I’m going to head out onto the dance floor and wiggle around a bit and see what happens. There might be laughter, I may end up in tears, but it’s all part of the ride.

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