Slow your roll, curb your anxiety and park your frustrations. If your objective consistently seems to elude your reach, you could be over shooting your target, over thinking your process and just pushing too hard.
Pull back for a change instead of pushing forward will sometimes initiate a(more) reverse of inertia and the prize will come to you.
Pull back; let things marinate to absorb the energy and time you've invested. Give it a day or two during which time evaluate your progress and if need be rewrite your playbook. Sometimes it takes a retraction to get the reaction you're going after.
One of life's most overlooked fallacies is that of the belief we must always chase, pursue, and go after. Sometimes we run past our goal with realizing it. Sometimes we need to pull back and cultivate the garden we have already seeded and sowed.
The memories are trying to escape. They've stomped their way through the gates and are making their way towards the edge of your brain. They are fading into the distance, flickering under the setting sun, shadows of what they used to be. You must move quickly. Get a rope(more) around them and pull them back in before they are lost forever. (less)
"PULL BACK! PULL BACK!" The general screamed through the wire.
"We've got it locked down calm down Sir, we've got the front covered and the flanks are holding steady. Over." I replied, his over active nature and willingness to retreat had saved him a lot of men, but prematur(more)e retreat calls had been his downfall recently.
"This is an order! I say pull back and pull back now lieutenant!"
I was not about to tell my troops to retreat from a battle they were easily winning, if it took standing up to my general to get the results that our country needed, that our cause needed, then I was going to do so. With simple and decisive grace I turned the knob of the receiver to off and set it down in my bag.
"Private, I'm in command now, please alert the other flank lieutenants that we'll be under my supervision for the rest of this fight."
"Yes sir!" and grabbing his personal comm-receiver he scampered off well behind the lines, to conduct his duty. The far off pop of M1 Grands and occasional rattle of a Gatling gun were a far off marching band. This marching band had no horns.
"What's that hum?" I muttered aloud, knowing this conspicuous tone didn't fit in the tune. As it grew louder and louder I knew, it was the sound of a fatal mistake. Breaching the tree line a Henschel screamed by, it's bomber doors open.
"PULL BACK DAMNIT!" the general yelled into his com-link, yielding no response. (less)
In the mid afternoon the bolters had pulled back to the ridge with their tails between their legs as they exchanged blind fire with the marines entrenched in the thick jungle. Smoke and flames licked the foliage, turning the floor into little more than a corpse and litter filled(more) no man's land where anyone foolish enough to break cover was mowed down in a blaze of bolt or ballistic fire. The marines had been on world for a week, and bled for each inch of ground they gave.
Adams hung his head back against his foxhole, his face blackened by the seven days of solid fighting. Jankiss lay still next to him, his fingers still clutching his rifle with an iron grip. Adams started to sift through his comrade's pockets, searching for a spare magazine, some cigarettes, anything he could salvage. There wasn't much, and anything that could be of use was burnt near to a crisp by the sustained bolt fire. He managed to pull out a small package of cigarette's; earth-make, rare stuff to find this far out in the Tharsis Reach.
To his left, his radioman lay prone with his rifle still aimed at the ridge over two hundred yards away. "Corporal," he called out to him, "Get the Knossos on the horn, we've got one chance to reinforce and resupply and we're not gonna waste it."
The corporal complied, calling in coordinates and requests as calmly and succintly as he could.
Adams interrupted, "And Corporal, get us some goddamn air support, let's burn those spine-heads where they sleep."
"Can't promise anything sir, Knossos is calling out triple-A positions."
And so they waited for salvation, answered by the high whine of dropships and the unexpected roar of the fighters. Soon the ridge was alight, met with cheers. (less)
Round and round we'll spin, in circles moving forward.
We don't care what's ahead!
We'll press on like a drill spiraling into the new world we'll create for ourselves.
(more) Your words are wasted on us; your logic on our emotions.
Trying to enforce rules that we've bent!
I don't need to believe in myself;
I'll believe in the ones that believe in me!
Their dreams intertwined with mine to form a spiraling helix that will drill our hearts, our minds, and our souls together to bring down the heavens so we can look them in the eyes as we knock them down.
Pull back!? HA! We'll pull back only to slam forward.
Breakdown what's ahead to grab onto the path we've chosen to follow. That's our way the GURREN LAGANN WAY!
Sometimes, the only thing that stopped Masayoshi from sprinting off into an alleyway and being an idiot was the fact that he forgot he was wearing a hooded sweatshirt and that Gotou had developed lightning-fast leashing reflexes. Masayoshi made a little 'erk' sound as he got approximately half a(more) meter away before he jerked back, and then glanced back and glared at Gotou. "Let me go."
"Nope." Gotou had a drink in one hand and Masayoshi's hood in the other. "You're not getting involved."
Masayoshi opened his mouth, already swelling with indignation - when the incident - two people on the other side of the street in a shoving-match-escalated-to-a-fight were broken up peaceably by a bystander. "See?" Gotou said mildly, and Masayoshi puffed out his cheeks in a pout. Now certain that he wasn't about to throw himself into the alley and jump out in costume (in broad daylight, where everyone knew who he was ANYWAY), Gotou released his hood. Masayoshi rubbed his neck a little.
"You shouldn't yank on people's clothing," he muttered, and stole the can of chilled coffee from Gotou. "It's rude."
"You're rude," Gotou said as his beverage disappeared. "That was my drink."
Masayoshi shrugged at him. The pedestrians around them had resumed their routine, now that the commotion on the other side of the street had been sorted out. Masayoshi handed the now-empty can back to Gotou, who looked at him, looked at the can, and then very deliberately tossed it over his shoulder.
"Gotou-san," Masayoshi yelped.
"Oh I'm sorry," Gotou said innocently, not even batting an eye. "Was I supposed to do something else with it?"
Instead of scrambling after it, Masayoshi instead smacked him in the shoulder, hard. "Pick it up! Jerk!"