I say, "It's a start."

The following blog post has been forcefully written because the writer is creatively numb at the moment; her surroundings are getting more boring by the second, observations are scarce and interest is lost.

She is confined to her room, over dosing on meandering episodes of rambling seasons. A book lays invitingly by her side, but the fear of it ending has put shackles on her otherwise hasty reading process.

She feels the end, no matter inevitable, will slink her back to depression-- and now she laughs at her own absurdity.

She almost made this piece into some philosophy of life, a long whining tale of all that seemed wrong, a complaint of spineless problems for often she is her worst critic. She is overly analytical, supremely paranoid and ill fatedly reserved.
She wishes to change that.

Now she wonders the wisdom of putting this up for everyone to see. The hint of any display of vulnerability frightens her again, but this time she is adamant.

It’s not much of a victory, she admits, but it’s a start.

______

Greatness isn’t just an aspiration; it’s a consequence of a game well manoeuvred. In an epiphany of clarity, I seek nothing but contention- that’s probably hardest to find, and find I will.