Mostly, we get hung up on the stopping
The suddenness of abandoning a tether we both love and hate
Love with the devoted affection for the calm it sings to our chaos
Hate for the shame it halos above us like an unflattering hat

Mostly we think that in stopping there is loss
That our spines will feel the impact of a vacuum we cannot imagine but nevertheless dread
The truancy of our determination decaying the foundations of our belief
We are crushed under the swollen density of a perceived disgrace
Our resolve corrupted by the whispering razors of suspicion
Skinning our confidence to make trophies of our ruin
We convince ourselves to accept failure before sacrifice is required
There is in us a solemn hysteria
But also a stray seed taking root in the womb of hope
Growing a philosophy that insists any triumph over vice is proof of a daring that binds us to our might
That if we succeed we must then surrender the relief our excuses provide
That there will be no alibis to rescue us from the indictment of our proficiency
And that the discovery of our own strength means we can no longer deny our ability to make change manifest

Mostly we are afraid of the ending
Panicked at the certainty that a tombstone will suddenly flower atop our buried obsession
And that our goodbyes to the mania we once cradled will land like glass roses thrown against the casket
When victory becomes a funeral
A lament
For the poisons we thought were cures
Mostly we shudder at the purity of a fresh start
We pause like skates in worship of untouched ice
Like a pen in praise
Holding ceremony for the start of a new sentence in a story it is changing