Another day—and look at me, noting the obvious with the enthusiasm of someone documenting paint drying.
How revolutionary.

My morning ritual: coffee that's never quite right, a shower where I practice arguments I'll never have, and the slow transit to work—my daily pilgrimage to mediocrity. I've perfected the art of existing without living, a true master of selective participation in my own life.

"Do something!" I dramatically whisper to my reflection, who looks back with equal parts judgment and pity. The reflection knows I'm all talk—we've had this conversation before, my reflection and I. We're quite the double act.

Tired? Obviously.
Exhausted? Perpetually.

I wear my fatigue like a designer accessory—it's vintage suffering, very on-trend this season. The unbreakable covenant of routine sits heavy on my shoulders, though not nearly as heavy as the unrealized expectations I've been lugging around since 2019.

My plans exist in a beautiful portfolio—pristine, untouched, theoretical. A fine collection of half-implementations, except it isn't worth anything and nobody asks to see the collection at parties.

Too scared to fail?
Darling, I've elevated fear to an art form.

I'm not crying; these are artisanal tears of untapped potential—small-batch, locally sourced from the depths of my unfulfilled ambitions.

I've convinced myself I'm doomed.
Pre-failed before I've tried.
It's quite efficient, really—cutting out the middle man of actual effort.

Doing nothing—my specialty, my superpower, my brand. I've perfected the skill of emotional stagnation while maintaining just enough self-awareness to feel terrible about it.

The tears fall, and even they seem disappointed in their journey down my face. They expected a more interesting terrain, poor things.

The fear—oh, the magnificent fear—accessorized with a throat lump that would make any drama coach proud. To be seen feels like sin, but I crave it like oxygen, a paradox wrapped in anxiety and tied with a bow of contradiction.

I'll fail, of course I will. But what is failure but the world's most uncomfortable stepping stone?
Success isn't a destination.
It's failure with better PR.

Still, I do nothing. I sit, I wait, I expect—a masterclass in passive existence. The clock ticks, marking time I'm expertly wasting with precision timing.

Not ready? Of course not. I collect hesitations like designer handbags—expensive emotionally and ultimately impractical.

Look at what I've become: a shadow with excellent taste in self-deprecation, a husk with impeccable timing for sighs, a thousand rotting possibilities arranged artfully just beyond my reach—a still life of "almost" and "not quite."

It doesn't have to end here. Not yet. I could choose to rise.

Rise—even with the weight of all those failures pressing down.
Fall—and let each stumble be a block. A building block, not a stumbling block (though admittedly the distinction is mostly in the marketing).

I am my failures—each a mark that I tried, a designer label on the couture gown of my attempts.

Rise—if not today (let's be realistic), then tomorrow (probably not), or soon (define "soon").

I can. I will. I am.
(Or at least I'm considering the possibility of potentially starting to think about maybe becoming someone who might.)