I could feel him there, that ill-intended inner critic who always seemed to be lurking at those inconvenient yet opportune moments, waiting just around the corner holding tightly to the other end of the tripwire.  I tried to ignore the whispers that kept urging me to give up, to abandon ship, but I was feeling vulnerable after having received some harsh criticism over the Leicester project earlier that day.

It seemed like an endless cast of characters, my (un)romantic life did; a script, a cheap off-Broadway production or, at times even, a badly-performed revival at some washed-up dinner theater somewhere off the highway.  I was stuck in the cycle, watching the lead roles change yet playing out the same scenarios with the same forced reactions and half-hearted efforts time after time, all the while maintaining some desperate hope that maybe, just once, the ending would change.

I could barely tell one bad date from the next, blending faces and names and histories and such until it was all a mashed-up giant man-mess, leaving me tired, frustrated and overwhelmed.  I desperately needed something to stand out – some bold soul to stand up in the crowd and stage the great walkout, saving me from the monotony of it all.  Lead the way, and show me your heart. Lead the way, today we will start.

Peering around the corner with a sly, self-assured and seedy grin, the vexatious inner critic waxed nostalgic, delicately reminding me of one pointless endeavor after another and the countless unmet expectations and disappointments we’d endured together.  I wondered why he tried to talk me out of things, since he obviously derived a sick pleasure from witnessing my various downfalls in such grand fashion.   He had been hanging around too much lately – wearing out his welcome and keeping me up at night rather than finding something more productive to do.

Perhaps if I surrendered my cause he would cease to find enjoyment in lingering.  Perhaps I should sleep on it. Perhaps I should simply dust off my steel-toed boots and forge ahead, trampling him in the process like an over-confident Spaniard in early July.

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