Something so fleeting in its delivery likens itself to a summertime mosquito bite. The nip at first goes undetected, but quickly swells, creating an insatiable and uncomfortable itch The backhanded compliment hedges along the line of offense and defence with its hesitant vocabulary – the sharp sting of pale uncertainty.
Quiet evenings like these when I sit alone in my apartment thinking of what to write, I bring myself back to this invalidation of what I had thought to be otherwise. The triumph that I hold so closely is pulled away while my fingers wrapped are around its imprecise edges. The sweat from my palms gives way a little and for a moment, I feel vulnerable and terrified that I am unable to claim what I thought to have possessed.
The independence and liberty gained from writing immediately feels the confines of my own self-doubt, as I re-read passages to see where it is that I may have led one astray in formulating an opinion of my writing. My eyes skip lines, and then paragraphs, and I realize that we are seeing things differently, as though that judgment comes without explanation. The reasons may very well be innumerable – I realize that I am looking to place parameters on something much too abstract.
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