I’m tired now. My body aches, and I feel at least seventy years old, and it’s late. My breasts are too hot, and my feet are too cold, and I can clearly remember everything that ever went wrong in my life. There is a whisper that all that lies ahead is misery.
When this started, at first, I was wrapped up in a golden glow. Everything seemed possible. Every wrong could be righted, and I thought with joy of the struggle to climb ever nearer and near the true fullness of life. The impossible was merely in invigorating challenge; the hungry fed, the little people come to their own.
And now it is night, and I ache, and even the perfectly possible seems too much of a struggle. Somewhere a voice is whispering that I have chosen a path which will break my heart. A voice is whispering I should turn back, as far as I can.
So what do the whispers think I am? All right, I’m tired, I’m down, and maybe I will never see what I dreamt of come true. But I tell you now that I’m getting up, and going on and seeing this through. Come on, give me a hand.