The hardest thing is not to start. It’s to restart. There’s
no longer that newness, just the dread that comes with thinking that you’ll
never be as good as you were. Or as good as you thought you were. It paralyzes,
pulls you back into its demon clutches, bludgeons you with stale French bread
until your eyes bleed.
Yet I must. Restart. It’s the only way not to sink into oblivion.
Picking myself up by the proverbial bootstraps. Forging ahead like Washington
on the Delaware. Fearlessly sallying forth into the world righting all wrongs.
No. Windmills would eat me alive.
It’s time, methinks, for whatever’s next. That’s nothing I
ever expected.
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