Something feels wrong. Incorrect. I reach for the delete key and pause. Are the words on the page and the text on the screen as bad as I perceive, or is it that familiar fog of judgement. The more I ask myself if my doubts are to fault, the more I believe they are, and the more I believe, The more I fear.
I fear that everything has a reason. That my self doubt is valid, that it's my Judge, Jury and Executioner. No, it's not my executioner. Despite my doubts, I continue to write-and continue to erase for my doubts are my Jailers.