I’ve grown tired of this suit.
I don't like wearing it anymore.
It’s not what it once was.
It’s a constant burden to me.
It’s discolored, faded, and worn thin, especially around the knees.  
It’s marred with tears and stains.
It embarrasses me.
It itches.
It’s suffocating.
It’s downright ugly.
I no longer feel comfortable in it. I haven’t for decades.
I’ve taken it to the best cleaners, the best tailors that money can buy, but it's still a tattered mess beyond repair.
People say I look good in it, that it’s me, it's who I am,  don’t be so self conscious.
But what do they know?
They're not the ones who wear it all the time. I ******* do, ******* it.
Maybe there’s some hidden truth in all of this that I’ve been bypassing all along?
I don’t have the patience and tolerance to keep wearing it.
The long-avoided decision to rid myself of my suit finally catches up with me.
I’m not timid, not scared, not anxious - just relieved. Excited. Ready to undress.
There’s a fresh, clean robe waiting for me, hanging from the mantle at the bottom of the stairs.
I prepare myself for facing the uncertainty.
So, here I go.
I undress.
It takes a matter of seconds before I rid myself of the suit.
I stand naked, towering over the folded mess.  
I think to myself, that wasn’t so bad after all…
Just like anything in life, it’s the anticipation that cripples us.  Remember that.
I lower my head and stare only for a few moments at my *****, mangy suit.
Nothing at all, no remorse, no guilt – only liberation.  I receive the peace that has softly spoken to me in my dreams, through music, by feeding ducks and listening to the early morning birds.  They usually have the first thing to say, and it’s the most beautiful message one will ever hear.    
I place my robe over my naked body and start walking up the worn, creaky stairs.
Distant laughter and muffled conversations travel down to me as I climb higher towards the thick, ornate door.
The voices are familiar.  
I push open the door, welcomed by the faces that have been gone for far too long.