A changing time brings a wave of disturbing newness.

When we've made a plan we can't recount. It is essential to stick to plans and to follow through, or we'll lose all legitimacy to ourselves and to others.

And that's where I find myself. Unaware of the future, but surely at contempt for the prospect of failure. But, while failure seems all but impossible in this world of second and third chances, I can't convince myself that everything will be fine. Perhaps it's an acquired attitude. Regret for past failures.


It's the feeling that little has been accomplished with the tools and talents acquired and blessed by God. I've yet to publish a story, or a book of poetry. And, in my undying ability to create words of thought, to lance the fat from the crap rivals sow, I've not been able to use my own whit to hunker down and establish what I'm meant to do.

Perhaps, all else shall fail if I lay, head back in a canoe, on the river of my dreams. For, when a man finds his voice, all will try to quiet him. But he must not let them. All things seems impossible, until the man takes hold and discovers what it is he is meant to be. And, I've done that. But do I have the know-how and the angst to follow through with producing what I should?

I must, or fear will continue to conquer and life with become more drab.


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