Wrestle away or stand still, my dear (the hissing connotation in memory makes it such an ominous whisper))
Shadows dance across the reflection of light in my window, pretending that they are figures traipsing back and forth through the darkness outside. My fingers trace letters in the open pages before me as I gnaw and chew on my lip.
The pages remind me, symbolize for me, how small and insignificant I feel. How inadequate as I strive for the impossible dream.
I'm never dedicated enough. I never press. I never stick. I never care. So I'm not good enough. Will I ever be? Is it within my capacity if I push hard enough? Because I will push hard enough, but the question lingers...
Is it* even within my feeble grasp?
*(True. Literary. Greatness.)
(this is not, nor is it supposed to be, a testament to my capabilities. just stream of consciousness writing lately...)