But a dream

As is with most worldly things, I seem to have lost sight of the joy in writing. I used to come to this space so full of enthusiasm, of optimism and the hope that some good will eventually blossom from its bountiful buds. And it was exactly that hope that gave me joy; for what human satisfaction can be greater than the act of improving? But I have persisted for so long and yet not seen the results I had expected that I find myself on the verge of giving up. How bold I was in declaring my resilience to failure. “Check-mate,” it now says, and I have lost the game.


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