Carrying the weight of the rift...

I am a believer in the power of endless action and reaction. You know those beautifully rounded pebbles which you gather on the sand and hold in your hand and marvel at their exceeding smoothness? They were chiseled into their varied and graceful forms by the ceaseless action of countless waves. Of a consistent set of giving and taking a way. By workers who never tolerate, without certain rebuke, any contradiction to their wise example. That's why my current inaction is so frightening. For I know that inaction is followed by stagnation. Stagnation is followed by pestilence and pestilence is followed by death.

After the daily grind...

For a fortnight there...

I recognise my surroundings. I'm at the pivotal moment in any story, where I have to actively silence my inner voice. Where I have to push back on my deep rooted fear of failure and embarrassment, and just endure. Then even if I'm stopped in my tracks, even if I'm cast out and my dreams are shattered, at least I won't be full or bitterness and resentment. At least that's how it's supposed to work, right? But is there really any difference in quitting or being told no? At least if you quit, you get to say it was your own choice. Being rejected has a finality to it. The death of ego. And maybe I just want to hold on to it a little longer.