When I have had my eye upon a goal
For many months and it’s at last achieved,
Where once was structure, there is now a hole,
And for those strictures I perversely grieve.

Instead of finding joy in leisure time
I mourn the comfort of the regimen,
And mundane tasks will hardly seem sublime
When dreams of greatness are within my ken.

So any trifling task’s an obstacle
Until a bit of progress has been made,
At which point, doing little feels so dull,
And any fears of failure are allayed.

With every step, the path seems less adverse.
Forgetfulness: my blessing and my curse.