Nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect.
I have something, this something, because I made a promise to myself, and I have broken many promises and let others and myself down often. And even if I did break one more promise and had been a let down yet again, so what? Tattered or childish, unoriginal and clichéd or contrived, it still is something, and I will show it.
Because today my fingers are not tired and my mind is not foggy, because today I am quiet and quieted, my heart is not heavy, because today my pen is not prickly and these words do not feel meaningless, because, if for nothing else, today I at least have something, this something.
I may not say anything new or shine a light into a forgotten corner of human existence, but I will have shined something, outward and revealing, cracking open a dusty window into myself and, maybe, you will have a glimpse of my light, and I, hopefully, will bask in yours, for a lonely second.
I may, again, have taken a trodden path, or beaten a new one. I may have not, and that would be just fine, but I will have walked, or crawled, taken a step, some step, whether forward or backward remains to be seen. It is something. And that is better than nothing.