I’m a continuous battle with excuses. I’m a
guy swatting the devil off my shoulder only to have him return with a pitchfork and that same toothy
grin.
I’m a guy who “couldn’t” compete in a triathlon because he wasn’t
mentally ready and needed a year to prepare. As if it were battlefield
deployment I was embarking on as opposed to a pristine lake in the mountains.
I guess the veteran with no arms or legs that swam a half
mile spent the year mentally preparing. I suppose the blind man that joined him
and swam tied off to a friend spent the last year strategizing just as well.
Wipe that toothy grin off your face, Hades.
Many people say I’m too hard on myself. I say I’m too easy.
Those who know me know a person who doesn’t necessarily hate losing as much as he
loves winning…and yet that smiling weight on my shoulder cloaked in red still finds
his way atop the podium.
Go ahead start writing your book. Get your ideas organized.
Get some structure in place. Nope. Too hard. Nobody cares. Not enough time in
the day. Too busy.
I guess all the writers in the world have all the time in the
world. I suppose back in 1963 when Stephen Hawking was told he had two years to
live he phoned it in just as well.
I guess. I suppose.
I’m too hard. I’m too easy. I’m red. I’m white. I’m
over it. Not really.
I’m trying.
