Can’t

Sometimes, when the clouds are just dark enough, when the leaves of the trees shrivel to dust, when words evade my system like breath, the world ends. For even the briefest moment, I have doubts. Not the doubts of a supernatural being, or that my existence isn't meant to be, or about my impact on those around me. It carves deeper into my chest, leaves scars of damage over my mind and seeps into my soul.

I doubt that I am a writer.

Why bother to scrawl words over a page that no one will care about? What makes my thoughts, my internal stories that shut sleep from my eyes, any different from millions around the world? Selfish, naive. I am nothing but a dreamer, the one who trips before the race even starts, the one who dreams climb inside to sleep. Ideas find me and die. The world will never care. No one will ever know. My name will forever disintegrate with my youth and spring of ideas. They are nothing.

Then, the sun pokes over the horizon.

I sink into a chair and uncap my pen, and magic sparks sputter against the page as a new world unfolds. One where anyone is important, everyone has value, we all have a chance to make our dreams come true. And I know.

I am a writer.