This entry doesn't have to be extraordinary. There's no one here looking over my shoulder demanding that I write in blood or offer my tears as collateral until I produce an entry worthy of my weight in gold, but I have stared at this white box for over an hour--typing and deleting sentence after sentence. My words run the gauntlet of my mind and my misgivings about my ability to write robs me of inspiration and confindence. I scoff at myself. How could I have ever thought writing was my salvation? I used to write as if my heart bled onto the paper, as if my words, if left unwritten, would explode forcefully into the air like the spurs of dandelions in the onslaught of a child's breath. Now, however, every word is a battle--one labored breath more before word-death closes around me, and I'm unable to form even the most basic, descriptive sentence. It's a matter of being brave, really, because I've frightened myself into believing that words written down should be as guarded as words spoken outloud. When did I become afraid of being vulnerable?