I'm sitting here today, wondering if I'm shallow.
I have learned that a writer must pull from their deepest thoughts… from their soul. And I do try, but then I read the thoughts of another writer and they are so much deeper than mine, so utterly beautiful.
They pull me in with them, and when I come up for air… I have to work to catch my breath. I would like to write like that. Someday I will.
As of yet, it doesn't happen with my thoughts. Is it because I have already visited the well of my own despair, my own desire, my own aspiration, and I am practiced at holding my breath until I surface? Or is it because my well is… well… shallow?
I must learn to go deeper—to swim far below my comfort zone, to fly far above my highest aspirations. I will start here.