I'm done.
Those two words, they seem so powerful. So definite. So final.
But are they really? Really?
When I push back from a bbq steak dinner and say those words, do I not then cut another small hunk to gnaw on as I clean off the table?
When I put my paintbrush down and state those words, do I not itch to pick it back up to tweak those few spots that just don't look right?
Even when I intend on eating "just one" chocolate chip cookie, when on earth do I EVER mean it?!
What's going to make this time any different?
I'm done.
Hearing those words bring to mind a setting sun or a closing door.
No question mark. No hesitation.
There should be nothing more than the echo of footsteps walking away.
So why do I hear nothing but the sound of my head thumping against drywall as I procrastinate, reciting my regrets and feeding my fears?
