Stranger To The Self

Do you know what it is like to have a burning calling to do something, yet there seems to be an unseen force that stands between you and that thing?

You push for the thing that calls you, but in your way is resistance.
It is not so overt a resistance to be identified, it is slippery, vague, and ever present.
You cannot name this obstacle, only toil against it in desperate vain, aching to make it to where your heart belongs.

This is how writing is for me.
I have no illusions that perhaps I yearn for unattainable dreams, or long to be something that is beyond my means.
I am meant to write, it is in my very bones. Linguistic delight trembles at my fingertips, a physical want to burst forth a name the reality I live.

But I do not let it out.

I have a mounting suspicion this is tied to self doubt, and even more interestingly, external validation.
I do not want to write for the approval of others.
I do not want to write to gain respect from others.

I need to write to gain it from myself.
Until I do that, I will be struggling with that unnamed and unknown force, which I will call the smothering mass of inauthenticity.