Eating Words

My restaurant...Fork, Dine, Home, Sup, whatever I'll call it...took firmer shape this morning as I sat with my cousin, parsing out the details:
"What sort of food would you serve?"
"Can you describe the niche you would fill?"
"Who would cook?"
"Would it be best to open it in a big place like Chicago or elsewhere?"
"How much money would it take?"
"What is the benefit of working with a partner?"
"Are you sure want to work that much?"

I had answers to all of these questions...good answers, thorough answers. Yet my vision felt bulbous and squishy, trying desperately to find it's feet. I felt the legs struggling beneath the weight of the ideas, but they were there. My vision has legs and the sense of when to use them, but I'm not sure if it has feet just yet.

At the end of our discussion, my cousin asked me pointedly, "Why aren't you doing this?" For the first time that hour, I didn't have an answer. Her query has been knocking around in my head all day, replete with headache and a severe lack of motivation. The clamour, slightly softened with Swiss and a pear, still pushes, muffled, against my eardrums.