I wipe the spittle from my mouth and the crusting sleep from my eyes. I know he’s there. Watching. Waiting. Mocking.
He is the commas. The stuttered pauses. The rat-a-tat-tat of the delete key sounding like gunfire.
I face my evil twin. I know I can do this. Others say I am foolish to listen to him. I know I am ill prepared to confront him.
He is the walls of missing writing degrees. The face of establishment. The fear of rejection. The fear of success. The crushing marathon ahead of me, when I can only manage shaky steps in a lush green park.
In my war, dedication is my only weapon against such a foe. Therefore, I steal time from those that deserve better. What sort of man have I become?
He laughs at the ticking deadlines and wistful word-counts. He gathers the dust of my neglect.
Others say that I am a strong. A leader of words. A creative hero.
He sees me with my doubting eyes, unkempt hair and roughened clothing. He knows I am a fraud, a hero that never was.
In my peripheral vision, I see others face their own evil twins and I realise I am not alone.
No mention this week, but this was from the heart and it meant a lot to write it.