Some Sort of Fear

I want to write you a story but I'm afraid I'm not ready for it yet.  I'm afraid I don't have all the details to explain it.  And yet, I'm also afraid that if I don't get it down now that I will soon forget it, as I have so many times before.

I'm afraid of getting all the specifics wrong or not being able to round the sharp edges in the right spots and leave the biting language in others.  Despite all the shoes and glasses on my shelves, I still feel lonely.  Something stokes a fear in me, telling me I have to appeal to all the greater audiences.  Something says, "You must write so that those with eyes and feet on their shelves will listen to you too," though I can't tell you for sure where it comes from.

These fears are like those establishments lately: one party largely won't contradict the demagogue because it's too late to turn back now, while the other seems to fear becoming the new target if they listen to the people's voice.  It's hard to fully understand how we got to this reality tv show that we've got ourselves into.  I don't like living in a world of polarities and increasingly fractured factions.  Sure this was what our forefathers feared.

Somehow writing feels like action in some small way.  Perhaps that is the appeal to these tweeters and internet trolls.  Maybe they feel they can really change things (or at least the way people think - and that does change a lot, doesn't it?).  I don't know.  I just feel that I can't sit by on the sidelines much longer while the world burns hotter and tensions increasingly rise.

I stay inside and try on others' glasses or put on the shoe of someone who came before and it doesn't feel like enough.  I read seeking community all the while knowing that when I remove my lenses, I will return to my own lonely state.  I am in good company with a good book, but as I set the pages down I am left with just my mind and a chasm filled with new thoughts to share with no one.  I have sometimes considered anonymity as an option so as to teach myself how I really think or to remove the fear of direct attack, a whistleblower of sorts, but those same fears seem to talk me out of it all.

I don't know.  These words keep coming from somewhere.  Maybe the genius or the muse beside me is fed up with all the silence from the nobility lately.  Or maybe it's time for the loud minority to be shut up again.  The problem (or one of them at least) is that I have no desire to close anyone's door.  We all have a right to speak, free speech right?  Am I naive to believe that even those that are doing so much damage to this world must be given their time?  Or am I increasing their volume by not adding my voice to the conversation?

I don't know how to move forward.  Many times I feel that is because i need a push.  I blame everything under the sun for my own inaction, but I still do nothing about it.  How do I ask for a gentle (though firm) push in the way of progress?  Or maybe more appropriate, who do I ask?  There must be trust in the dialogue or it will go nowhere (see again: inaction).  I don't know.  Maybe I'm alone in all of this and the feelings will pass.  I just hope I'm not leaving others behind in my personal neglect of valuable resources.