I stutter at thresholds.

Flounder.

Stammer.

Splutter.

Pick your “halt gracelessly” verb, and I’m there.

I will kit out for a complete adventure and then camp out at the door. Terrified, I be, of taking that first step to another failure.

I despise that about myself and the worrywart of a gremlin that is my brain.

Currently, I’m shuffling my feet at the “Paint for Profit” doorway.

What if I can’t do what I think I can?

What if I flop for the thousandth time in my ridiculous life?

I know. I know. I’m adept at bombing at most everything I do, so why would one more cock-up matter?

Hope.

I attach hope to everything.

Fool or champion?

What the heck kind of creature am I?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe