It could be a problem.
It could be that a thousand different starts to the same old story point only to perfectionism.
It could be that abandoned oils and acrylics and watercolors signify only dried-up visions.
It could be that skeins and cakes and balls of untouched yarn prove I’m in over my head with indecision.
Or, it could be that the fruit of years of dreaming and doing is still the thrilling seed of possibility.
(Day five, the final day! Prompt: possibility)
Life Out Here 