The blinking cursor mocks me.

Words that used to flow so freely through my fingertips have become fodder for my imagined critics. Every heart-flutter of intelligent thought that cries out to be written is stopped short of life. Someone might actually read into the cadence of this language, I might be seen.

Writing is the visible outer covering of my heart and soul for the world to discern, but fear has rooted itself deeply. Vulnerability is a risk I suddenly can’t seem to bear. 

Emote. Type. Erase. Repeat.           


And still the blinking cursor mocks me.