I am wavering. I am alright but I am wavering. My strength. My gumption. My get up and go. It has been weakened and I am wavering. This moment of self-doubt, this overwhelming sense of impervious gravitational shut-down, I wish I could bottle it. I would sell it to the federal government to be used in the crime on terror.
This wavering is part of a process that I know as well as I know my own limbs. It happens with every ending. Every time a project is complete or another one fails to start. Actors call it the post-show mourning. It is my mind’s inability to sit still.
So I buckle. Briefly. In the face of another fork in the road. I know that there will be another project, another goal, another vehicle for forward momentum but for know I must battle all of my fear and insecurity and self-doubt – the little voice inside my head that says, “You aren’t good enough. Your success was a fluke and from here on out there’s gonna be nothin’.”
In a day or two I will beat the crap out of that voice and leave it dead like those annoying house flies that invade my apartment from their feasting ground in the dumpsters behind the Chinese grocery positioned just below my third floor windows.
But for now I waver and I pout and my boss gives her mothering, “Are you alright?”
I assure her I am fine. It will be over in no time.