I used to be so scared to share my writing, my art, my soul with the internet—with the world. To share anything you’ve created is to invite yourself to be seen at the depths, your sharpest edges and bloodiest wounds, all the pieces of you that you’d otherwise keep hidden if your soul didn’t beg you to spit it out.
But imagine the alternative? To swallow down the magic, a lump in your throat, a rock in your belly, burning through to the core of you—a hunger never sated, a craving never quelled?
And so, somewhere along the way, I decided I was a real writer. A real artist. A real witch. A real creative. A real athlete. Somewhere along the way I stopped trying to make everything so perfect and discovered that I could scribble on a piece of paper and it was actually some form of magic—some incantation from another realm.
If everything is made up anyway, then what does it matter? Why not put it out into the world, cast a spell with a messy scribble, tell the secrets of your heart with the stroke of a pen?
You’re real. You exist. This is all actually happening. And this can be anything you want it to be. Burn bright, bb. Burn until you can burn no more.