Trust me, I have no idea what I am doing. I feel foolish. I do not write often enough, long enough, or well enough to qualify. I barely edit; I have never stuck with a piece by whittling it away and molding it into a nearly new creation with edits and dedication. I feel inadequate. I don't just feel it, I believe it.
How do I dare to dream of reaching others with my words? Where did this dream come from, and where could it possibly go? The audacity. Silly of me. My major is a fluffy, ridiculous dream that will take me no where practical. I'm not even sure if this is right for me. But I don't know what else to choose, what else would maybe fit. Doubts assail. And these doubts may be completely valid. Maybe I should listen to them.
My voice is small.
Then, there are moments where I feel a blossoming confidence in this gift I've been given. An arising flame, bursting to life. Maybe this is right after all.
This dance continues, day by day. I wonder if the flame will survive.