Often as a writer I pour over whether what I am writing is something that should command any attention. I reach out for the ethereal words to grasp them from the semi-opaque vapors in my mind that pass for thoughts, trying earnestly to say something significant. It is nearly inexpressible how I often feel that this is an exercise in futility: I can never say it well enough. It will fail, I fear… I believe. I even wrote an untitled poem back in early March that I posted on my personal Instagram (@prramer) that spoke to this feeling of inevitable failure at words.
Detour
You were on your way. You were taking the path to get you there. But the road was suddenly closed. And now you have to take another way. You thought you had time. That you would have time to get there. But now all you have is time. Time to accept uncertainty.
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