There is a heavy insistence from those close to me that I'm better.
That this dip in my improvement is nothing more than temporary.
After all most flowers must wilt before they truly bloom.
But I am bitter, I feel nothing from these roots.
A shadow of years of practice.
I doubt that I am a necromancer and my talent is dying;
If I try to remain on this path I'll die a failure.
Maybe I should go against my goals for money or fame
Something I can grasp that won't pass through my fingers.
Baby steps towards a future I didn't prepare for but one I'll survive.