I think about my sister and how she is the most amazing artist, yet she cannot paint. She doesn't paint because she's afraid of what's going to come out of her brain. She's afraid of really being good at something and all the pressure and the uncertainty. It's too much sometimes. I wonder if this is how I am with writing. All of these words and feelings that I didn't know existed just coming pouring out of me. That's the thing. I'm not sure I didn't know they were always there. It's as if my fingers pull them out of my brain where they were all jumbled up. I'm not sure what happens when I write, but sometimes it feels like someone else takes over. And when I do it I wonder why I don't do it every day, all the time, except that maybe it's too much and I don't know if I like myself enough yet to do it. I'm afraid of not being good enough. I'm afraid of where my feelings might take me. I'm afraid of what you will think.