Set

The only thing you can ever do is start over. 

I wake bruised and tired, pummeled by a week's worth of waves, of dark storm clouds and apprehensive tip-toeing around the abyss. Make a cup of coffe, gather myself in words, wrap myself in piles of ink and word processors, read and re-read, polish, taste their meandering sentences on my tongue. This is where you live, a voice inside my head whispers. She is not wrong. 

I come up for air eventually, the demands of an outside world at last upon me, but I am reminded that those demands are only a means to an end. I get knocked off course and I forget, but this fact does not change. 

The only thing you can ever do is dust yourself off, get back on the horse. 

Remember where you're going, and head that way again.