"Hmm, interesting..." muses Freud

I’ve always considered myself to have the soul of a writer. Now, before we get off on the wrong foot, I need you to know that I’m not delusional in the slightest regarding my actual ability to write. Simply having the soul of a writer does not necessarily translate to having the know-how to relay thoughts, glimpses of one’s own reality, into the written word. What I think is beautifully poignant with just the right dash of wit may be clunky and dull to someone else. What I think is an impossibly nebulous paragraph of drivel may flow seamlessly and with perfect relevancy for another reader. My point: in the world of words, it’s all about perspective. It’s a constant battle, with everyone climbing to the top of an imaginary peak (with no less casualties than the very tangible Everest, mind you) to be the first to reach the flag. It’s the most impossible game of capture the flag ever (that’s where I was going with the mountain reference; stick around, I have more convoluted metaphors where that came from); no one is on the same team, no one is looking out for anyone else’s back. Everyone seems to have a strategy, while I’m still in the corner of the field trying to figure out how to lace up my sneakers. Safe in my own little bubble I can judge others’ works, without having to deal with the sting of any reciprocated judgment. If I never put my stuff out there, I can go on believing my words are worth something because no one can tell me they’re not.