Brine soaked

What is it about the last minute that allows things to get done? Waiting. Waiting. For some kind of divine intervention. As if God will save us. Or someone else will prod us. Make us do it. Anyone but us. What stops us? Fear. Fear of not being good enough. Not making something that people will like. Not looking good. What if it's bad? What if it sucks? If I fail? And what will people think? Of me? There goes the guy that sucks. That fails. "I could do better than that," people will say. And so we don't put anything out. We don't produce. As nothing put out there means we don't fail. And we still look good. We preserve our reputation. Our place in the world of people's minds. As what though? Preserved. Like pickled eggs. How nice. We keep ourselves locked into stasis. Stuck in a jar. And people are able to look at us, how beautiful we are, glistening in the brine. Until we die. How convenient that we are already preserved.