My legs have turned to jelly
and I stop short. I no longer know where I stand, or what I set out to seek. I have forgotten how many days there are in a week. The watch on my wrist has stopped ticking. I look up at the sky, but I can’t tell if it’s dawn or dusk.
The goals meticulously calligraphed in my diary now read like Latin and Greek. I look at the road ahead, but it stares back, unfriendly and new and bleak. I have questions singed in my brain, and trepidation stinging my nerves, and my arteries and my veins. I bear with me my trail of failures, but there’s no room in it, for a new tier.
On days like these, I wonder, where do I go from here?