I try. I set goals. I push myself. I try to be more. More.
But I rarely succeed. And yet, sometimes, I'm more than I was. Not much, but more. A little more.
Sometimes I think that's all there is. That's the human condition. We stake out a piece of the sky but we end up with a handful of rain. At least it quenches. For a while. That's the way it is with us dreamers.
I can get so mired in disappointment in myself and in others. It gets so tangled, so involved. And then I wallow in my disillusionment and court unhappiness. I toss away my joy like it's cheap candy at a pity parade; I give myself permission to wallow while I try to make meaning of the mess I made of things.
Most wouldn't notice though. I don't want that sort of attention. I never have. (I can't believe I'm writing it here but I'm hoping to help someone else. So even my shame will be more. More.)
But I've shuffled my feet down this road before. And even though I know it's pathetic, at some point, I will retrace my footsteps, or most of them, again. I've overcome this before. It's taken years but I know now that it's all just a mental challenge. It's a thinking obstacle. And I think too much.
(But I love to think.)
So I construct this obstacle course for myself. I have to. It's so I can climb over it. Because I guess I need the struggle to be more. More.