Something I found

I found this, among other papers recently.   I have no idea when I wrote it, how long ago or how recently, but I'm going to put it here so that I don't lose it.


For as long as I can remember, I've always wanted to be a writer.  I've felt it in my soul that I can do that - write stories that make people feel something, anything.  But I've never been able to find my voice.  The one that speaks to someone other than myself.  That tells the amazing tales of the characters that live inside my head.  And I read with relish, and with jealousy that those people are able to find their voice, that they have the strength to put their thoughts on paper and share them with the world.  And I wonder if a lack of experience in life is why my inner critic is louder than my storyteller.  The critic's criticisms telling me that I can't do this, that I'll never be any good, that I'm running out of time.  That I will never actually achieve anything because I'm too old to reach my goal.
I wonder if there was another dream meant for me, that I overlooked because I thought that writing was meant for me.  I watch the rest of the world and wonder if they've given up on their dreams, or if they're still hanging on like I am, hoping for that day when that perfect moment happens.  Or maybe the perfect moment has passed and we don't even know it.
Maybe life is really just about catching that perfect moment, and if you don't, then you never even know it.  Maybe I need to worry less about the inner critic and keep trying.  Never giving up and persevering.   There's no point in giving up just because it hasn't happened yet.  It may never happen but there's no use in worrying about what may or may not be.  Just do what you do and keep trying. Life happens when you're not looking.  So keep living.  And writing.  And stop worrying.  The writing might be a way to let out the anxiety.  Write it into someone else's fictional life and let it be free of my own.