Cages of our own making

Sometimes, I am scared to take on a daunting task, not because I might fail, but because I might succeed.

Like many people, I have achieved a few things in my life time which seem, looking back, precocious. The trouble with being good at something, unexpectedly good at it, is that expectations grow and grow, and at the same time there is a nagging suspicion that this must be a lucky streak. A fluke. Two flukes, three flukes. A dozen. And with each fluke, each double six, each head that isn't a tail, the pressure builds.

I have fluked too many things. And now I find myself scared to roll the dice, because other people seem to believe that I can guarantee a double six. They appear to be convinced that my dice are loaded. That it's all in the wrist action.

Sometimes I look at my blog stats and am grateful that I am not an a, b, c or even d-list blogger. I can't imagine the pressure of feeling like people are expecting a brilliant blog post every time. Of feeling like I will be judged on the rubbish I write. Or tied to an 'identity'. I like that as Stray I can be lots of people. Silly, serious, poetic, blunt, frivolous, funny and boring if I like.

Sometimes I feel like I am in a cage built out of my achievements. I am aware that this sounds pretty wanky. But I want to say it, because I suspect that I am not alone - that most of us walk around inside these invisible cages. What if I fuck up my second child? What if I only have one book inside of me? What if I can only take beautiful photos of beautiful things? What if they only love me because they don't know me yet?

A perpetual anxiety about being Found Out. Nudity dreams. Hesitation before raising our hand to give the answer.

What if, until now, I have just been lucky every single time?

What if I roll snake eyes?