From time to time, I work hard. The log of hours spent is drawn long. A list of chronological milestones writ in the ink of careful carelessness. In symbols no one can see but me, with letters and numbers so bright it hurt my eyes to look at them.
The characters whisper to me of my lack of my own; mocking titters from each entry lay bare my missing integrity. I grit my teeth and try harder: hard enough to leave myself with burst blood vessels and no results.
No results.
I feel as though I come so very close, sometimes. More than once I been so very near to excellence. To exceptionalism. But instead of working to reach the pinnacle, I feed myself on the food of mediocrity.
Fear of failure keeps me from moving forward. I court the theory that I can't lose what I don't wager.
11:12 p.m. - 2014-11-17
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