My history tells me I am the owner of a previously capable brain of well above average ability. I have studied wide-ranging subjects of interest to me and understood those subjects to my complete satisfaction. That may be a false memory or ego or self-loving exaggeration talking but at least I have felt comfortable believing it was true for most of my life.

I've lost that loving feeling.

I'm a writer but I'm not writing. I guess that means I'm not really a writer. But I can't let that be true …. because …. I am a writer! I need it. And I will write. I will make myself write and I will write until I write something worth reading.

It has become too easy to find excuses. And eventually I don't even need to say or think the excuse. All I need to do is know there must be one … out there in the world or in here in my mind. It's there …. somewhere …. so I don't write.

Well, that's crap!

I have lived much of my life in defiance of logic, in mortal combat with reason, against my own best interests and without my full knowledge or participation. I have chosen not to choose. I have watched life unfold before me and followed the path in front of my nose. I worked hard and with mild success but no joy. An empty frustration eventually seemed normal. Those annoying opportunities that sometimes beckoned to me from uncharted ambiguity failed to breach a perverse protective barrier which shielded me from risk and reward. 

For me, the game began on September 10, 1948 when the Dealer first dealt me a hand. It was not a great hand, not a good hand, but at the time I did not know the difference. I looked at my cards in bewilderment. How does this poker game of life work? What are the rules? What are the chances a guy like me can win? Over the years I began to understand that the hand I'd been dealt was quite a poor hand and some hard decisions were necessary. 

But I had no courage.