There are times when I hit a wall mentally, skull meeting brick, and all of my words tumble out of my mouth, letters in a scattered pile. I am mute, a painful prison for one who breathes prose. I feel it, feel the sickening clouds rolling overhead, but cannot cry out and explain my plight. I withdraw. I cocoon. I shelter myself from…. what? Help? Solace?
I’m forever clawing my way up the mountain alone, it seems. I’m compelled to, each time it looms. And usually, halfway up, I relent, and decide, “That’s good enough.”
But it’s not. How I wish I were brave enough to see what lies further above…
Day 227 : Brave – Idina Menzel