Quiet Night

I'm afraid my brain is going to revolt. To leave me. It berates me for not making good on its work. Yes, even my brain is upset about this lack of money. To fund its projects, its dreams. My imagination may revolt. It may say, "Enough," and seek greener pastures. And then what? There used to be all this time. Tons of it. So much time, later, to do those things, and that thought staved off depression. Later, later. All of these things. And now it's later, and none of those things - not one - none has come to pass. And I can't go on fooling myself. I know this. I know it. No one needs to tell me. (They do, still, of course.) But what options have I? Earlier I could have sought out another direction. Not so now. I'm locked in, and what was admirable ten, twenty years ago seems sad now. Pathetic. Something to pity and avoid. I know. And yet I'm still optimistic. For again, what choice have I? I'll keep it up until either success or... that other thing.