Find me a blacksmith..

What if I didn't have to avoid this? And I could just do it. Fingers dripping with stories eternal, waiting to be told, what if I removed the decades of paint and pain from these walls and used them to write the words? Instead of dipping fingers into hot wax and rolling it between my fingers as it cooled, staring into the flame and letting my thoughts run me, what if I gathered them into neat lines of words to tell the tales my heart longs to write? And what if I turned flame into torch to melt the wrought iron gates of fear that prevent me from even trying? Someone get me a blacksmith that can help me turn this fence into pieces for a bridge. I absolutely must cross this chasm. How did I get like this? So afraid. I don't remember feeling this way when the sun was rising in my youth and the world was full of possibilities. Until I got a message, "sorry we don't need this version of you." So I put it in my backpack and gave everyone the version of me that pleased them. This next act will be different. And I hope I hold myself to it.