I’ve lived. But I’ve yet to live. I’ve written. But I’ve yet to write. I’ve listened, hardly hearing anything at all.
Never been one to keep time so close. Inevitably letting it slip away. Along with hopes and dreams of a life that only I can conceive.
Failing at every turn. Wishful thinking had always been my new prop. Worn thin by too much bragging and boasting. Imaginary champagne glasses raised for the toasting. Except this time there will be no speech. At least not from me. Just a will to be great. One that goes without saying.