How often do you take a look at your own life, your own actions, and ask "What am I doing?" I do that a lot.
THE THING: I am perpetually paralyzed by fear (and now annoyance at not completing that alliteration) in the face of things I truly care about.
THE PROBLEM: Naming the fear is the furthest I’ve come.
THE GOAL: In life? In this article? I don’t know. But I want to find out.
THE PROCESS: Won’t be pretty, but is self-analysis ever? Maybe exploring the last time I did nothing when I wanted to to say everything can provide some insight.
THE EXAMPLE: It was last Friday night and I was at an open mic. Despite my ravenous rampage to find myself an open mic in the past, truly I was content with just watching my friend. And then came the chance, the chance to perform—or the chance of the chance. All my friend had to do was ask if there was an extra spot. I froze. I thought of the poem sitting heavily on my mind, stored conveniently on my phone. The poem I screamed to city streets, the poem I made a video for to prove that action shouldn’t always be the precursor to reaction but rather a state of being. The poem that explained how I felt in that moment. The poem that sat at the top of my throat, and in that moment, slid down my esophagus instead of my tongue. My friend knew I wanted to perform it, but she did her part. She asked me. And with the baton placed into my hand, I remembered self-growth isn't a relay; it's a solo event. And besides, I never did track.
THE CONCLUSION: I’m trying.
