This time you nearly did it.

I sit with the pen to the paper, preparing to create my last and greatest work. After all, if it will be the final thing that I ever write, I should go out with a bang, right?

But, try as I might, no words spill from the pen to the paper. I cannot make that first mark. The paper remains empty. In that moment, I realize that I can’t do this.

I haven’t made my mark upon the world. I haven’t gazed upon the mystical monoliths of Stonehenge. I haven’t published my first book. I haven’t recorded my first song. Leave this realm as an unknown?

I can’t do that. At least not yet. So I put the pen down, close the spiral notebook and curl up in my bed. This time, you nearly made me do it. Your hate nearly pushed me to that final, hopeless brink.

I guess it just isn’t my time yet. So, I take my spiral notebook back out and put pen to paper for what will be far from my last composition.

You’ve nearly killed me. Yet, I live to see another day.

View this story's 4 comments.