Worry. Like a barbecue.

I worry quite a lot of late.

Mostly that I no longer have the time to be what I should be.

My talent's too dim to be the next bright thing.

I'm much too old to die too young.

But, but, but...

If I don't fan the embers to a blaze, I'm guaranteed descent to ash grey grave.

If I don't try.

I risk a spark short burn that no-one sees but me, but surely that blaze has to be.

Surely.

Surely it does.

And I might as well burn as bright as I can; I'll be going out in the end anyway.

And if no-one sees, so what?

What will be lost?

And who notices ash anyway?

I'll have been true to my source; I'll have reached my pinnacle.

Others will burn brighter. Others will be hotter.

But they're not me.

And they may have been brighter yet; their true potential may have been denied.

Mine will not have been. I will have been the best I can.

So I'll have won. I think.

Time to fetch that fan.

(And who knew I could still write like a 14 year old?)