‘Am i jealous of better writers?’ I asked myself in a fleeting moment of self doubt that lingered far too long.

“Yes” replied my heart. It reminds you of all that you never are. Or could be. Tugs at you in the shadows like the threads of a puppet. Controls you. Like fear to a tightrope artist, destroys you from within. Till all that is left is a husk of the person you once were.

“Yes” whispered my brain, begrudgingly. Talent laughs at the face of dedication. Hard work is nothing to skill. However better you try to be, there is someone else at the peak. Waiting.

Mocking.

Always.

Leave this pitiful quest, fool! Writing to you is walking to a fish.

“No” a meek voice wandered into my ears. It is not jealousy you feel, the tiny voice continued. You do not wish to be like the writers you admire. You wish to supersede. It is a drive to be better.

Better at what? I dared to ask.

And then I waited.

Waited…

“Everything”

I heard, before the voice vanished from whence it came. Inside me.