Maybe I never will.
Maybe my dreams will be stillborn. Maybe I’ll be a wage-slave for the rest of my life.
Maybe all the shiny, happy things that dance in my head will stay in my head and never come out. Maybe all the naysayers are right. Maybe I’m not good enough. Maybe I’m not smart enough.
But I’ll be damned if I don’t try.
It’s hard. But I refuse to utter that God-damned word – can’t.
Because can’t, like death, is so final. But life, like try is so full of possibilites. So full of hope.
So there, naysayers. So there, thou fel voices in my head. Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’ll point your fingers at me in twenty years and laugh and say ‘Told you so! Told you so!’
But when you do, I’ll smile back and say ‘I’m still alive, silly. Point your fingers at me once I am dead, because I’ve not given up yet!’