Pen to paper, finger to key, spade to soil: beginnings were easier in the beginning. Years of practice only serve to reveal the vastness of my inexperience. What is it in me that resists beginning? Why to I refuse to come in from the siren-song soup I call "research," "exploration," "time to think"? As I flail around in the warm water of self-deceit, a time-tested system seems dry and unappealing. I know, but won't acknowledge, that I'm built to breathe that very air. Just a little longer, I think, imagining my fingertips wrinking, my limbs growing heavy, all movement stopping.
On second thought, maybe I'll come in now.
On second thought, maybe I'll come in now.
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