DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

The last time I took a real risk, I didn’t jump out of a plane—or onto one with three Camel cigarettes, a dime, a suit a size too small, and a half-whispered prayer. You know the kind of move you make when desperation’s gnawing at your ribs and pride’s already dead.
No, I did something worse.
I posted my writing online.
Voluntarily.
Like a lunatic begging for public execution, dragging my entire bloodline down with me.
Go ahead. Pile up the rocks. Light the torches.
Here comes some fool named Mangus Khan—half dead from alcohol withdrawal, twitching on caffeine, clinging to bad decisions and a blog password like they’re body armor.

---

You’re not just tossing words into the void—you’re stepping out from cover, wide open, daring every hidden sniper in your own mind to take the shot.
The ground gives out beneath you, and suddenly you’re swallowed by a wraith screaming, “Disrespectful twit!”
PTSD flares up like a tripwire.
You can’t do that. You’ve got to stay safe. You can’t expose yourself like that.
Then comes the voice—the one that always shows up.
The one that tells you, “You’re a fraud, that you’re embarrassing yourself, that no one asked for this, and no one cares.”
It’s all there. Waiting.
It feels less like posting and more like being a fugitive, hunted for the crime of being seen.

---

Self-doubt is a masked assassin, cutting you a thousand times and spraying iodine on every wound.
You feel the burn every time you open a document. Some days, it’s enough to make you scream.
And yet—there’s something stubborn. Something deep down.
A fire that refuses to die, screaming, “Come on! Face me!”
Still swinging, no matter how much shame you pour on it.
It spits back at the doubt.
It says: Maybe this isn’t perfect. Maybe it’s not even good. But it’s mine. And it’s real.
The fight never ends. Some days you lose. Some days you swing back harder.
But if you’re lucky, you stop waiting for the permission slip that’s never coming—and you start writing anyway.

---

I clicked the button.
Not because I felt brave. Not because I silenced the voices.
I clicked it because if I didn’t, they would win.
It wasn’t some Hollywood moment. No slow clap. No flood of praise.
Just the hollow thud of silence at first.
I startled like I’d been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to.
What was that?
Could it be?
A sound. A signal. A crack in the wall I thought would never break.
If you’re lucky—and if your courage holds—you hear something.
A whisper from the ether.
I see you.

---

I’m not fearless now. I never will be.
To think otherwise is the act of a fool.
I am a great many things, but a fool isn’t one of them.
Every time I sit down to write, Doubt whispers sweet nothings in my ear, stroking my hair like an old lover.
I moan at the comfort of it. Yes, that’s it. A little to the left.
But I know something she doesn’t:
I made it through once.
I can do it again.
Sentence after sentence.
And that’s enough.

The outcome? Unknown to me.
It’s entirely up to you.

One thing’s certain:
I am Mangus Khan.
And I write the Memoirs of Madness.

---