Jump.

Blah freaking blah blah. Tired but writing anyway. Listening to some button in the dryer make “button in the dryer“ noises. CLANK!

“I think too much and live too little.” That phrase popped into my head just now. But is it really true? How can someone “live too little?” I mean, im not in a coma or a vegetable. That’s such an unsavory and non-PC way of describing it...

I guess I mean that I’m not out in the world enough. I’m afraid of it ruining me. Though it never really has. Not libraries or parks at least. I like safe quiet places. Places with no people, although I’m starved for social interaction.

I have a boring life with rich fantasies that I should be putting on paper.

I want to be a real writer. Imagine the “trademark” sign at the top of writer.

I want, I want, I want. I am a real writer already! Not a published one. Not a notable one. Do I even want to be? Would I be happier if my words were out swimming in a wider ocean?

I don’t know and it scares me. Is this it? Everyone adult asks that question.

I’m a resilient person. Never broken, not in pieces, nothing to pity. I’m funny and smart enough to be noticed by a moderate internet circle. Clever. Kind. Honest. I like building people up.

The world needs me and I need it. Mustn‘t be so afraid. The more “safe“ I am, the less stimulated I am. And then I grow bored, lonely, depressed.

I know the right things. I have to do them. Not think about how cold the water is. I went cliff diving once in Hawaii and didn’t die. So there.

Jump.