I’m Not Actually Living.

I write to please.

Everyone.

My literal neighbors whose three cats and dandelion carpeted lawn I can see from my back window.

My parents and other family members who pray I will come back to Jesus.

My old friends from my twenties.

My current friends.

The old ladies I chat with every day at the community pool.

The person who slices my turkey or dishes up my popcorn tofu at my local Co-op.

The woman who scans my Whole Foods groceries and asks me if I have Amazon Prime.

The random people I see every week at the coffee shop on the corner.

I told you. It’s truly everyone.

What will they think?

Their silhouettes appear in my mind, their feelings of disapproval seep into my body.

I type a word, delete. I type a sentence, delete. I type a few paragraphs, delete. Then, I push in my chair and walk away from the blank page having created nothing.

Oh well, at least I didn’t disappoint anyone.

Is that the bar I’ve set for myself?

Don’t disappoint anyone.

Okay then. I’m on my way to achieving a paper full of sparkly gold stars and a giant A+ for my superhuman ability to read a room and my hypersensitivity to others and their feelings.

But did I ever participate in my life, jump into the deep end, sputter and kick and flail, make a fool of myself?

What do you think?