There's always a point in the middle of the battle, the work, where it gets scary. When enthusiasm's gleam rubs off to leave you face-to-face with your efforts, and their underlying motivating factor. What's in a good intention? Patience to see it through, to be challenged by your values. Economy, balance, progress. The realization that progress is a term so vague, its meaning susceptible to the climate in which it finds itself. Hard fact all of a sudden gives way to perception, interpretation-- the daunting, simultaneously freeing truth that the stories we write rarely stand the test of shifting understanding through time.
And you realize what you've got is you. All you can ever hope to truly have is your self as a conduit. Remaining loyal to the forces of change. Dedicating yourself to crystallizing the residue of a hundred different stories, moments, experiences, intentions; for others. Compounded like carbon, copied, clouded; you come an polish it up to cut away what no longer works, serves. Walking the fine line of effort and surrender. Of desire and renunciation.
What will save you in the void? In that space between where uncertainty rules the ego?