He stood from his desk and walked to the window.
It was sunny, but deceptively cold. His toes were cryogenically frozen in his shoes- and will outlast him long after his death.
He thought of how much wife says he’s good. Had the potential to be something. Thought about how much she hated his short sentences.
He threw on his jacket. Grabbed his two cameras. Powered down his monitors.
May never succeed, but I have to try. I owe it to them. To her.
Exhaled.
He’ll walk about. He’ll deeply reflect. He’ll continue to create and to work, despite fear.
darrionjwrites 