Days I find myself wondering why some aspects of my life have to be such hurdles; the unreachable kind that invariably stretch and move without my consent. For once I'd like to answer and say, "Yes, I'm here. I made it." For now I'll have to keep it to, "Not yet, but I'm doing my best." Though that brief statement might often be followed by the internal scrape, "Why can't my best be good enough?" Understanding the steadfastness of a great difficulty inexplicably tied down by the refusal to move is bewildering to my well-being, to my soul.
Angels aren't going to sing parting the sorrows weighing on my heart, so somehow I've got to. But my throat hurts; I am too tired because all I do is sing and now my voice isn't enough either, and I am half-singing like a bird whose lost its will. Not the will to keep on living, but the will to keep singing.