I’m sitting here in my car just before going into work. The temperature is cool this morning (50s, which is odd for June), but the rising sun is beginning to heat the earth, I sit here in my nice warm fleece feeling the ultraviolet rays settling on my skin. The sky is blue and free of clouds, the green leaves on the trees sparkle like jewels. And I’m about to go into a large, gray box for the day.
My soul recoils, frightened by the cold reality of time.
I sometimes go on rants as an excuse. An excuse as to why I am still here, or perhaps a plea for help. I grant you, this is complaining. Complaining about what I have, or have not, done.
The path at forward is the path inward. Which sounds cliché and woo woo, but it begins with making a decision about laying one single brick at a time. I realize that I am talking to myself.
It’s laborious and long… my brow sweats. Is it fear? Fear that somehow time will catch up to me? Feat that I’m on the wrong path? The, quote/unquote fear of success?
I am done with fear.