I’m scared. Into the second month of a plan-making-reality and another imaginary hurdle presents itself.
The fear of failure is a constant, repetitive, malign and abusive relationship. Most people seem to recover from the feelings they had when they were fifteen years old. But like some spiteful Lileth, that anxious former self still stalks me.
With absolutely no need. I have proven I can do anything, cope with whatever stupid situations into which I stroll unthinkingly. Perhaps that’s part of my problem. Whenever I spontaneously contrive to make the moment now, it’s fine and I am forced to deal with matters.
When I deliberately plan it all ends in thought tatters. Because the cruel little madam within fills me with so much doubt.
I’m here at the tailend of a masters degree. I’d love to say it has been hard work, but aside from the annual leave sacrifice, the sheer number of hours spent writing, it has been an enjoyably lazy effort. I’ve walked through the knowledge, sniffing a rose of thought and idly producing a half arsed bouquet of ideas. All of which will lead nowhere because my singular lack of ambition.
I must be the most well qualified idle person there is. It’s quite frightening. By hiding in degrees and essays, it’s easy to avoid pretty much everything.
So to contemplate doing a language to help me acclimatise to my country of future writing, is requiring me to pause and confront my laziness. A language is bloody hard to learn and no easy art historical blather will cover the fact I haven’t done my homework.
I’m pausing before commiting to a language course because I’m scared that my plan will fail. If I fail in the learning of the language, I’m scared that my plan will fail. Let’s face it. I’m scared that this plan still fail.