There’s a girl in my mind who wriggles against my skull, begging to breach the membrane between my collective who and what that I’ve become. She’s silly, and creative, and her imagination soars within my hair follicles. I want to let her loose, but as a middle aged woman, fear creeps below my skin.
I have a friend. He keeps pushing, and she keeps tapping the back of my eyeballs. Prodding for a chance to be let loose. She used to write such amazing stories of the pursuit of life, of chance, of hope.
I’m so close to letting her loose. Letting her breathe the same air and weave her tales around my fingers. Her hiccups make me dance with wonder, but the fear I have lodged at the base of my neck hold her back. What if her imagination is no longer compatible with my fever dream? What if she turns her dreams into nightmares?
Am I really a writer? Or am I just a fraud?