The despicable little forces that convince us to put things off for another hour, day, week, month, year, then oh guess what? It’s too late. You’re old, decrepit, facing death, and those books you wanted to write, the ones that you knew were in you and that would come forth if you just let them, withered away like ash.
Excuses are what keep us from doing what’s uncomfortable. They keep us safe, in the comfort zone, whatever that might be. Mentally, figuratively, literally. Doesn’t matter. Their main role is to trick us into thinking we’re making the right choice, because they’re afraid of being ignored. Because when we don’t listen to the excuses? When we don’t agree with them and bring them to reality? Then they have no purpose. Then it’s they that fade and wither away like ash.