Three am to five am had become her doubting hours.
She had always been the glass half full, never liked the word bittersweet, even when describing chocolate, and recently had embraced words such as fortunate and blessings.
Yet the doubting hours would trip her, use her as a tango partner and perhaps even deceive her. Tapping her shoulder to awaken, bringing attention to the gnawing idea that struggle was also part of the plan.
After a stolen handful of Halloween candy along with headache pills, closer toward five am, she named these feelings The Artful Doubters. They were the ones strong enough to stop a new document being opened. A title being typed. A stamp being placed on an envelope. A meeting being requested. A dress being bought.
They teased her about writing a blog featuring pointlessness, when people were standing without a roof, or a tree on their car, or continued without power because mother Nature took a violent turn.
She considered being lucky to have those hours, they could after all, strengthen her decisions and celebrate her ambition.
As the weatherman warned, a tree can only be as strong, it may be the final wind following hours and hours of being pushed and pushed, that will rip it from it's roots and bring it to sawdust.
These hours were as fruitful as they were tormenting. She wondered if The Artful Doubters always visited, even when she would sleep through their whispers. Then again she wondered if she simply thought too much, and yawning in order to relieve her jaws and teeth from tension, she hit delete instead of publish and begun another day.
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