I meant to accomplish greatness. I think I truly believed I would. A certain naive faith in myself, not without conceit, convinced me that I was something extraordinary. That I could be extraordinary.
Even now I do not think it was all false.
I still believe I could be extraordinary. It is a belief I cling to. One that I hide in my pocket where it glows like a piece of star. I take it out frequently and hold it in my cupped hands, admiring it. But at the same time, I am fearful for it and must shield it from the treacherous winds that might snuff it out for good.
Sometimes I lose faith and find fear. I find it crawling from the drawers and creeping under the door. It knows where to find me. It does not take me by surprise. I am so accustomed to the taste of its presence that it could never sneak up on me.
But that doesn’t stop me from feeling it. Its touch is keen and suffocating.
In these times I will not take my starlit hope from my pocket, for fear that fear itself will snatch it away.
What a fool I am.
For then it is smothered for want of space to breath.
Its light falters.
A light that might have helped chase the fear away.