Sometimes I despair. It hits me, washes over me, drowns me. Sometimes I don't write because I can't. I don't have the skill. It all vanishes. I lose my tenuous grip on it and it flies away from me. Or flies around me, mocking me that I never had it in the first place.
I have an idea. It's an enormous idea, and it's terrifying. It's separate to me, a thing so huge that as soon as I thought it into existence, it became something of its own. Already, instantly too big and strong for me to hold. So there it stands, a giant, waiting for me to create it yet already existing alone.
I suspect that I don't know what I'm doing, and I can't prove that I do. I can listen to moments, and find myself in them, but I can't prove it to someone else. But I will have to prove this. I'll have to prove that I can do it, and I have nothing to show. I have nothing to show.
So I'll start small. Take it down to the tiniest thing, a thing that looks like it might fit in the palm of my hand. A thing so small that if I mess it up, I will only be killing a very small thing. A little death. A spider. An ant.
Start small, and ignore the giant. He doesn't know what shape he is, anyway. Look at him, morphing, like a big lump of clay. Waiting. If he's so strong and clever, why is he waiting? Why is he watching me? He's unsure, that's why. He's waiting because he has to wait. And now he's sad, scared, lonely too.
Oh. I see. He's waiting for me.
And so am I.
