Time is far from foreign to me, but it’s never ceased in its petrification of my deepest essence. The frost it exhales with each rapid tick severs me as I stretch and age on alongside each everlasting era. I am consumed by Time, but I still cannot overcome my terror of it.
Thus, I have ceased to grow. My cowardice perseveres in a way that forces my untapped blood to curdle. The fault is my own – I have only fulfilled the meekest of tasks each time I have had the opportunity to confront the unexplored. It is through this very idiocy that I remain weak and withering when encircled by all that is robust. This is the beaten foundation beneath all I attempt – everything is futile when my craven core simply seizes each effort and annihilates it to dust.
Now that I am sentient of my own timidity, and I understand that it does not bleed itself out in a manner similar to how Time resplendently expels instants into the stratosphere, I must come upon a solution so that I may someday be worthy of this existence. It is as I trudge along this snow-stricken path that I shall prepare to abandon my former self. But, at this time, Time’s gentle rime paralyzes my limbs; therefore, I slog only because I cannot dash.
Perhaps satisfaction will meet me near the foot of this snow-blanketed cliff, but the very thought of diving into the most merciless of all conflagrations reawakens my ever-triumphing cowardice.