Mild Thoughts

I am a writer who doesn’t write.

I am a singer who only sings when no one is listening.

I am a dreamer who dares not chase his dreams.

An anti-narcissist who obsesses over others who are posting their achievements.

A genius who only sits and judges those who try.

An athlete that hasn’t hit the gym in over a year and a half.

A dieter who hasn’t counted a calorie in 6 months.

The next Elon Musk, but I play video games all night and don’t create anything.

Speaking of creating, remember that class I took and that invention I was gonna make almost a year ago?

I’m a maker, I say.

I just have no drive to do it without outside intervention.

I’m a writer, I say.

But I only write when I’m sad, or when I’m obsessing over my problems, or when I’m trying to pick open old scars by helping others online.

I’m a song writer, I say.

You can tell because this was saved in the song folder, not that I will ever come back here and give this a hook or a chorus.

It’s much easier to call myself something I am not than to actually experience the stress of trying.

Much easier than to fail over and over, making real progress.

Much easier than to be humiliated and torn apart by my own ego.

I am a liar.

Most days.

Lying to myself.

Trying to be something I’m not.

Too afraid or too lazy to even try.

So maybe I’m not a writer.

And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe I don’t have to be so hard on myself.

Maybe I don’t need to be something all the time.

Maybe I don’t need the labels.

So then I’m not a writer.

So then what am I?

I don’t know…

But tonight.

At least tonight.

I am someone who writes.