It really just hit me. 5 minutes ago? The adrenaline, the unnerving fear, the distant worry and all still the same, the naked indifference standing in the same room.
I guess it really did just hit me, that this is literally all or nothing. I walk in, and walk out with either everything in the bag or just feel everything in the back--the solid agony of knowing your dreams slip you by, waist deep in complete incompetence and utter shambles.

I know it's finally hit me. How much I really want it, yet how uncertain I am of attaining it. Like almost how every kid has that one big fantasy-like aspiration--to become a superhero, to become president of the world, to become an astronaut--and sometimes, just even one time, that aspiration is more than just a silly daydream.


I hate that it hit me and isn't going to stop. This lurch in my stomach, encouraging me, enticing me almost forcefully demanding me to abandon and desert my dreams. But how can I carry on with my head held high knowing I ditched something behind in the most pusillanimous manner? So I will bite the bullet and pray I won't bite the dust.



It's hit and it won't run. This phenomenon has obviously straightened out its moral and ethical beliefs because it's here to stay. To apologise, to provide comfort, to pretend that it is actually concerned when all it wants is to be able to leave in peace, guilt free, as though nothing ever happened.




It's hit and slipping further away.



The hit is real and hard but I know I will face it eventually.


It is a hit I have received and one I will graciously take.

Because it's all coming back now.
One hit, one chance.