She was a little girl that aspired to do great things.  Own a corporation, drive a luxury sports coup, have plenty of money, and never, ever work for anyone.  Through school her entrepreneurial drive fueled her future fantasies, but her achilles heel, procrastination, always held her back.

After high school, she didn’t know how to follow her dreams, so she settled for college instead of molding and growing her talent.  Always feeling that she was destined to be more, do more, she decided to work on her gift to perfect it.  Her fear kept her from sharing her heart for words and the art of scribing.

As the years of young passed her, it seemed like her mind was always changing, her direction was never clear and her world was full of chaos.  So, she got a job.  The one thing she didn’t want to do; she did.  And excelled at it.  But it still didn’t satisfy her thirst for life.  Writing gave her life.  So… she wrote.

She wrote poems, and love letters; journal entries were her self talks and talks with God.  She wrote short stories and even tried to do a kids book.  But nothing would stick.  As soon as she would get the thrust of power to do any one of those things, within days, weeks, sometimes months, her interest would wander.

She began writing a book; she began writing another book. Never finishing.  And she’d start another one.  After only 10 full pages, front and back of her mindful ideas put to paper, she would begin a ‘new  book’ all over again.

The story never flowed.  The characters needed more depth.  The starting point was always wrong, but at least she was starting, right?  And she would talk about being an author.  And even tried being a spoken word poet….But the uncomfortable space that it put her in caused fear to rise up, a lump in her throat and silenced her for a long time.

Doubt had sucked the writing life out of her.  She lacked the courage to continue in the half-fantasy, yet whole-reality of pursuing her…dream.

Her dream was just that.  A. Dream.

And though she wanted it to be her life.  It was destined to remain a dream.  There just never seemed to be enough rope to pull her up from the pit of defeat, depression and anger.  She, like her work, was unfinished.  Like every book.  Unfinished.

Every business plan she’d start; unfinished.

Half drawn pieces of art; unfinished.

Dreams broken at the seems; unfinished.

Always living the reality of… unfinished.

Maybe, if she takes a hold of it now, and refuses to surrender to the internal burdens of her unfinished life and incomplete mind; maybe she can survive long enough to see that the unfinished parts of her life connect in such a way. that only in hindsight can she realize the unfninshings made her the complete woman staring back at her in the mirror…

LeToya Williams (c)2016.



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