White space
I’d like to think I’m a visionary.
A self-starter.
Someone who can see that far horizon and blaze a trail toward it.
That given enough time to do what I really want, I could change the world.
Two years of unemployment say otherwise.
The Great American Novel is still incomplete.
I’m heavier.
My marriage ended.
No new skills on the resume.
Because the white space?
Daunting.
And I kept seeing the expanse, and that was all.
Because I couldn’t see the other side, I froze.
Now, as I look at going back to the grind, the trick is going to be doing it differently.
To see it otherwise.
Not the destination, but the journey.
Taking steps, one at a time.
It’s less about where they end up, but that they’re going somewhere.
Anywhere, really.
Progress > perfection.
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