Just a liar dressed in the clothes of a writer. Just a fraud dressed up as successful. A fool dressed as a genius. A romantic idiot dressed as the jaded master. As plagued by doubts as I am certainties. Both convinced of what I am and cowering in the corner of my mind, convinced I’m a fraud. I could turn this around, make it a rejection of these anxiety filled thoughts. But would that be the lie? What if all I am, all I’ve done, is meaningless. What if these dark whispers are the truth and my confidence the lie? I’ve been wrong before, fundamentally wrong. What if these aren’t demons? What if my brain is just demanding I wake up?