I find it strange now. The land behind me, the little house at the rim, weather-worn and wanton. I can make out the wind, and how it beats against it, while the water sprays on my cheek and stings with saltiness. I hope you're listening to it. Can't you tell what's happened? You know, I have always believed that the will is the most underrated thing in this world. I never discounted it. The worst thing there ever was to me were the words, "it cannot be done." Whenever I would hear that, if to rephrase it for the speaker, "it won't be done."
It is all a decision. Then, another is added, and then another. Each of them built on the previous. So many in fact that you forget how the foundation was laid. Is it sturdy, is it flimsy? You have no idea. Instead, you cloak and conceal and lose yourself to the labyrinth of your own creation.
You are there now in fact; shouting, reaching with hands out, stumbling blind in the darkness. It has always been like that.