“John, I’m only dancing”

There's this nagging fear raising every hair on the back of my neck as I start typing into a new blankspaced notepad-- like, every time, alright?-- a primal fear scaring me witless that it's supposed to be just blogging, reassuringly so, but that I might end up sounding like the goddamn Unabomber or something, like the Norwegian shooter? You know? Like preaching some manifesto? This is a journal, this is a collection of missives for someone (you!) whom will probably never read it as so, also as in, this is ESOL practice. What would, I don't know, David Bowie for instance, say about that?
"John, I'm only dancing."

Then as if half-secretly trying to discredit myself I go for a random posting from years back and this is what I find----

“Maybe I do regret not kissing her by the swimming pool back in that sunny Saturday in '94, but that’s all.”

----and it makes me smile and it’s such an honest smile because all of a sudden I realize it’s possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever written and that I’m such a screwball for ever doubting my own writing.