It's a strange thing to have all these expectations, spuriously egged on (by yourself), and have them all sink, like a very bad dinner, right in the centre of your tummy, and then, the somersault of an hourglass, these are no longer yours, but their expectations. Not stolen, for nothing can ever be stolen from you if it hadn't belonged to you in the first place. That is called a delusion, a flight of fancy, shameful naivety, or at worst, the secret lining (self-deceit) of packaged hope.
I will like to spend my days, as though they are my own, which I mostly end up doing in halves, for duty beckons, and I am answering its clarion call. Soon enough! I am also a veteran procrastinator.