I gambled. Still am. I stuck my neck out, tempting fortune and favour. Where do I stand now? In the midst of platudinous mediocrity. A run of the mill. A moth-eaten prosaic of which I feel nothing of. Did I not settle for such terms myself? Did I not dispose myself to such notions? I did. When did I run out of passion? That rapture the enthralled and spelled out my life? Age and time convulsed my vigour. I am all but beat. I still recall the morning I woke up to an exhausted eagerness to walk the line I had sketched for myself. The night I resumed a daily routine of potheadedness, leading nothing but a less than usual lifestyle. The day I quit pacifying myself and settled for mediocrity. I look around me at the accelerated world; like a candle burning at both ends. I look at me; I’m nothing but a moments wick.