For such blunders, my merry spirit, or what’s left of it, grew distraught.

I find myself all the more weary as if rocks were stacked high on my shoulders. For what have I done?

I have doubted.

I have deceived.

No one but me.

Time was for blame.

Yet, I cannot blame.

The steady pace of my livelihood had faltered and shattered.

Disappointment was the motive.

Now.

Now.

What shall I do?

Why is their no repetitive effort?

I shall reflect.

I shall endure.

I shall criticize.

Was I not made for excellency?

Was I?

Time is my enemy but I can create time.