A journey begins with a single step. And I was afraid to do even that.
I'm gasping for breath, reaching up over the edge, where I always thought I would be.
But I am not there now. I've let myself slip away, pulling more than I could have ever thought with it. I let myself stagnate at the bottom of this stage, wallowing in my own vices and habits. The sounds of my so-called "peers" echoed around me, trying to pull me back, enticing me with their discussions and opinions.
Information was my drug of choice.
I was consumed by it, lying there as I covered myself with it. Useless, unimportant information. The more trivial knowledge I took, the more I heard others' thoughts, the more humor I read, the more I became dormant. I was content on the outside, the world's conversations as my shell.
But there was always this fire within my being.
I had cracked my barrier, bit by bit. Disable a setting, and visit another place, but it will always have a hold on me.
But is that wrong? Have my thirsts for socialization been a threat? Was I drowning my self, being untrue? Or was it gluttony, of a type less talked about?
This will always be a part of me. One I will refuse to deny.
I reach my other hand up.
And this will be a part of me, I refuse to deny.
I hang my head low, searching for breath that I had lost months ago. I take in the air, and look towards the limelight.
I'm a writer, damn it.