I suspect I may be nearing the end of my hard-lived life. I am fine with that. It gives me the impetus to write. I know it is now or never in other words. As delusional as it may be, I still believe I can make it. Put another way: the fear of not making it as a writer far outweighs the fear of death (which was once so all-consuming that I could barely go a day without a visit to the doctors).
***
The experience of writing is one of automaticity. It always has been but for the longest time I was oblivious to this truth (which is hardly surprising given how subtle it is). Now I am aware, it somehow makes the process of writing slightly more agreeable. Don’t get me wrong, I still devise reason after reason not to sit down and write. Automatic or not, writing is painful at the end of the day.
"When I say I am going to do something, in all seriousness I mean to do it. But I never do, of course. If I did, who knows what might happen."
***
Only when we are accepted for who we are can we become the person we always wanted to be. More than likely the person we become will be intolerable to most people. Which is fine, good even, a confirmatory sign that our instincts were sound all along.
***
When I say I am going to do something, in all seriousness I mean to do it. But I never do, of course. If I did, who knows what might happen.
***
I figure I will continue being who I am for as long as necessary. As soon as I can, however, I will replace who I am with who I should have been all along. And that is when, precisely when, I will finally leave the house.
***
Fear, protracted fear, mutilates a psyche over time, until it (the psyche) becomes unrecognisable to itself. Fear, in other words, eventually alienates us from who we once were. And it does this quite strategically, without compunction.
Noah Blue
First published on Noah Blue, March 2026.
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