Alexa Zigarmi is an amazing writer. This was in her journal; a poem she'd written about a friend she lost.  I hope she doesn't mind I put it in here, I just think everyone should have a chance to read it. 


Poem For Kyle

I can’t write you a poem:

I can’t write you a poem
because
there is no combination of words
that are
perfect enough for you.
No verse,
No syntax, not a line,
No chance.
There can be no diction.
The one
articulate thing I
could say
those days was “I’m being
inar-
-ticu-
-late.”
Even then we never
used words
Anyways. And not in
many
ways did we show what I
cannot
describe to you this day.
Cream-puff-
colored smile Your eyes
Your warm
weathered hands with those small
Lifelines
then symmetric to mine.
They aren’t
Just words, just words, words, words

I was going to write my whole senior project story on here...but it seems like too much to put online, so this is my last entry about what happened.  It ends just before 6th grade, so I don't think it's too personal.  If you want to know the rest, just ask and I'll talk to you about it.

So I've been procrastinating.  Again.  Now that I have (checks watch) one month to finish my senior projectm and its basically still in the notebook stage, I figured I'd better start typing it, so I can finish the thing, and not flunk my class.  The only problem is, I can't type it on your classic word processor/ Microsoft word program to save it.  First of all because my family would kill me.  Seriously. They don't know that I'm writing my life story (very abbreviated) from 5th grade until now, and they definitely wouldn't want me to be either.  And I hate to say it, but they're pretty nosy people, so if I just save it straight on the computer they'd look to see what it was, and probably delete it.  Is it weird that I'm going to publish something to nameless readers that I'm embaressed to let my family know?  All I know is that if I don't start writing tonight I never will, and what does that leave me with?  Just a blank piece of paper.  So far it's pretty long, so obviously I won't get it all in tonight.  You can go back through the entries, I think I'll basically have it continuing through them, and when I'm finished copy them all to a standard word processing document. I'm sure you'll get the hang of how to read it.   It's not rocket science, it's a journal entry people.  So here it goes, it's a little rough still....

When we were kids, people always would ask us if we were twins.  Both bore identical expressions of wide eyed anticipation, multiplied by the rosy flush which spread across chubby cheeks when the wind blew or we'd been playing outside all day, which we usually had been.  I'm told the neighboors looked out their white-shuttered windows and laughed at the spectacle we made; racing across their lawns, sandy blonde hair bouncing in our eyes, that we similarily flicked away with a frustrated toss of our heads, like shetland ponies.  Mina and Cliffton; the rambunctious siblings of the Walter family.  Even our clothes matched; him in mud-streaked jeans and his dad's company logo t-shirt, and I in a hand-me down of the same version.  In the summer our skin glowed brown and freckled at the same rate, and we carried matching super soakers (500 of course); that is, if we weren't catching snakes or craw-dads at the lake.  It's not like there was much else to do in Park City, Utah, and we didn't mind the lack of variety either.  Our only difference, besides 2 years of age, was the bowl haircut he sported instead of my long braids, and my eyes were green, while his caught the color of the sky.  In the winter he looked like a native Russian, with his sky blue eyes, ivory skin, and mop of unruly hair, darkened without the sunshine to kiss it.  Winter lasted 9 months out of the year, and rarely peaked above 20 degrees.  We'd equip ourselves to battle the enormous snow drifts outside with layers upon layers of clothing, regular underwear, long underwear, sweatpants, sweatsirts, jackets, snowpants, and overcoat, mittens, and hats.  Inevitably, after the half-hour dressing process, one of us would have to go to the bathroom; which resulted in a peeling off of every layer, only to repeat the dressing process again.  Despite the obvious complications of the endeavor, winter remained our favorite season.  It was the time of year for snow forts, sledding, ice skating, skiing...and of course KABOOM.  We didn't have another name for it, we just called it KABOOM because that's the sound it made.  Ty, my brother's best friend (and my future husband, I often told him), taught us about this wonderful experiment the year I was in 5th grade, and he and my brother were in 7th.  Since they'd moved on to middle school, they didn't want some pre-adolescent girl following them around, and often tried to escape my incessant questions. But that day, Ty was ready to share his secret joy with the world.  Carefully, he tipped a plastic coke container sideways on the snow and unscrewed the ivory cap.  Deftly he pocketed the ridged aparatus and raced us to the garage where he'd been stealthily storing something in a container for the past few minutes.  As he pulled on heavy canvas gloves, Ty Parks' eyes glowed like embers.  The tip of his strawberry ice-cream tongue slid into the corner crevice of his mouth as he meticulously opened the lid to the container.  Leaning over to see better, my face met with a cold puff of air and smoke which filled my eyes and lungs.  Puzzled, I wondered what could make a container steam like a hot jaquzzi on a cold winter night.  The canvas gloves dissappeared into the cloud-like layers of smoke, and cradled something small and concrete like a baby.  "Now it's time for KABOOM." he informed us wisely, as though we knew what that meant.  I could see then that what he held in his arms like precious gold was dry ice.  We used it the previous year at my elementary school for halloween; when mixed with soda it made a "witches brew"  that our entire class swore tasted like the real thing, although we'd never personally experienced it.  Dry ice represented everything that was mysterious and grown up, and I wondered what it could possibly have to do with KABOOM.  I contemplated the mysteries of Ty's half-bitten thumbnail as he carefully inserted the quickly evaporating ice into the bottle.  Next, 7-up was added to the mix.  Quickly, hands trembling slightly, Ty screwed the cap back on, and jammed the bottle into a large snow-drift.  The steady breath of my brother, standing to my left, deepened, like he was about to dive under water for something.  To my right, Ty's breathing stopped entirely.  Curiously, I kept my eyes trained on the unmoving snowbank.  Was that the whole trick?  Bored, I scanned the ground for some place to plunk down and create a snow angel when "KABOOM!" My head jerked up just in time to see snow flying everywhere, and then a gaping hole in the snow drift.  "Holy Shit."  It wasn't the first time I'd heard my brother swear, but it always puzzled me.  What was it about the shit that made it so holy?  Him and Ty galloped to the explosion site to admire the bottle, which had been ripped apart entirely.  "Holy Shit", was all I coud say, mimicking my brother's intonation and emphasis on the word "holy."  Naturally, the two burst out laughing, two thirteen year olds tickled by the profanity of a fifth grader.  I had to join in and smile.  Cliffton tousled my hair in a half-noogie and Ty squeezed my shoulder as they walked inside for some hot coccoa.  It was just one day out of many that the three of us laughed at the mystery of KABOOM.  The laughter stopped the day my brother put a dry ice bomb in the school trash can.  No one laughed that day. 

It's been forever and a day since I made an entry, and it's strange to see the tiny black cursor blinking expectantly across the computer screen.  Not only have I not written in my blog for a while, but I havent even had a computer in months.  Don't ask me how I survived, it's a mystery to me as well.  I remember the screen just went blank one day, for no aparent reason, further enforcing my belief that technology is out to get me.  Computers and Amanda just don't mix.  But, now that it's been fixed and everything is back to normal, I wonder what to write about.  How do you catch someone up on the last two months of your life?  Where do you start?  I'm having a similar problem with my senior project, which is ultimately my entire life story. Well, everything from fifith grade to present day to be exact, and so far it's about 80 written pages...I start to write a single moment and end up explaining why it's significant, but then I have to go into other events and why they're significant to make a point and then... you get the idea.  It's an endless cycle.  What I miss the most in writing about the past is that I haven't had the opportunity to keep up with the present.  Being the overanalytical person I am, when I don't write and understand what's going on now, I stress about what's been happening, rather than writing it down and getting it out of my system.  Writing is my form of nostalgia about the not-to-distant past, a way to make my stupidity all right in the end, because it's for entertainment sake.  And most of the stuff I do is stupid, I have to admit. 

It seems like this is the phrase I find myself most often thinking in your presence; I'm sorry.  I'm sorry sweetie, I'm so sorry.  Last night and all day today I contemplated having it tatooed to my forehead, just in case of an emergency situation; where I forget to tell you, or am too stubborn to say it (as this is often the case).  But even that symbolic representation of my remorse seems hardly fit to exemplify my deepest sentiments in regard to my inapropriate actions and behavior towards you.  Mi amor, you have been nothing but a resolute fixture of inspiration in my infinitessimal life, and I must confess I fear my presence brings naught but heartache.  Shamefacedly, I'm compelled to beseech you; forgive this undeserving miscreant.  My jealousy (unjustified) towards the BH situation (name not used to protect the innocent) has all but dissapated; leaving bitter remorse in it's place.  Like you; my light, my everything, I yearn to achieve laudable faith and devotion for God and Jesus Christ (Jesus Cristo).  My petty mind resented her infallable idealism, in contrast to my own waning and waxing relationship with God.  But what is a comparison, if not a futile juxtaposition of two separate but equal hearts in the eyes of God?  God proclaims unconditional love.  He promises, "There is nothing you can do to make Me love you less... and there is nothing you can do to make Me love you more."  Unconditional love is just that; without condition.  Regardless of our actions; whether they are affable, mediocre, or abominable (ie amanda's treatment of Eric Michael Winter), God loves us.  Subsequently, unconditional love does not imply unconditional approval.  My deepest desire is not only for the unfaltering love of God (which you and I do, and always will, have), but to better carry out the will of God, and fulfill my purpose in life.  In reality, I should be thanking you, and all the BHs of the world for providing inspiration to myself and others.  Yesterday, in class we discussed what a hero was, and who our hero was.  Unsurprisingly, we both listed the same characteristics; humility, uprighteousness, selflessness, willingness to sacrifice oneself for a greater purpose, understanding, and unconditional love.  Our hero; Jesus.  Who else?  Jesus is the man.  Do not turn away from me, Eric Michael Winter, although my atrociousness condones it.  Allow me to become the person I wish to be.  Aid me along this perilous journey to find self and God; in return I pledge the same.  You are an integral aspect of me; you are necessary for my completeness, you are essential, an inseparable part of me.  I am Eric Michael Winter (Wuthering Heights reference...)

Random E.M.W. quotes...

"I want to smash your face in with a hammer."

"You complete me." *sign language anyone?

"You make me want to be a better man."  (erm...woman)

"There are times when the only vacation spot in the world is the past." Ever since we moved from Park City, every so often I play a game called, "What would you have done?" I imagine that I'm still in 5th grade, and our family is still together, and a world of opportunity lay ahead of us.  I wonder what would have happened if my brother hadn't gotten expelled from school; was only contemplating putting a dry ice bomb in the trash can, and what I'd say to stop him.  Right now, staring at the blinking cursor of my computer screen...this is what I would have described to him.  I would have told him that the moment he put that bomb in the trash can, he sealed our fate as a broken family.  I would have told him that we'd move to Coronado, where our family, and our parents' marriage would fall apart.  I would have told him that dad would leave us, in the middle of the afternoon, without packing anything, because of him.  I would have told him that it was all his fault, that I hated him, and hated myself even more for letting it get to me.  I would have told him about tonight, that we found out, he might not be skitsofrenic.  That the way he acted, that the way we all acted, might not be because of some horrible disease; but could actually be because of the amount of stress we all went through.  I would have told him that he could save us all if he decided not to go to school that day.  But he's not the only person I would have talked to.  
I would have told my dad not to go skiing through the trees that winter, where he crashed; resulting in head trauma which doctors believe led to the symptoms of chronic fatigue which he suffers from even today.  I would tell him how years later he wouldn't make any of his daughter's soccer games, or take his son hunting or fishing any more, or take his wife out to dinner, because he was too tired.  I would have told him to quit smoking, that he got emphysema, and that his son started smoking; if that isn't reason enough to quit I don't know what is.  I would have told him to quit drinking, and warned him about the dangers of alcoholism.  I would have told him to take his wife out to dinner, to tell her he loved her, and promise to always be faithful.  I would have told him to bring her flowers every day, and laugh when she told jokes, and let her sing along with the radio.  I would have told him that later on he would be begging her to do all these things, but somewhere along the way she'd forgotten how.
But he's not the only person I would have talked to.
I would have told my mom to go back to school and get her teaching credential, so that she could work less hours for more money and get summers off.  I would have told her to keep her own savings in her own account, and guard them like our future depended on them.  I would have told her not to be so nice; that tough love is better when it's the only way to solve a problem.  I would have told her to be harsher on her kids when they wouldn't clean their rooms or eat their vegetables, and ask them about their schoolwork no matter how much they resented her for it.  I would have told her to ground us once in a while; kids need structure or they think it's ok to do something out of control, like put a dry ice bomb in a school trash can.  I would have told her to stand up for herself, and realize what a strong powerful woman she is.  I would have told her to divorce my dad early on, when she was young and there was still time to meet someone new.  Actually, I would have told her not to marry my dad, but I wasn't alive then, so that doesn't really follow the rules of the game anyway.  I would have told her that it's selfish to marry someone like dad; that not only would she screw up her own life, but the lives of her kids as well. 
But she's not the only person I would have talked to.
I would have told myself about everything that would happen in the years to come if everyone else continued on the path they were living.  I would have told myself to leave, because it would never get better.  I would have told myself that blood isn't always thicker than water; that family loyalty has to end somewhere.  I would have told myself that no matter how good intentioned the action, wrong is and always will be wrong.  I would have put myself up for adoption, or gone and lived with my grandparents, where there is always a shoulder to cry on and good advice to be taken.  I would have done my homework every night, and got a private tutor if there was anything I didn't understand.  I would have gone to school every day, and been involved with the student body.  I would have played volleyball; used my height for something good.  I would have stayed in church, and been involved with the youth group. With them I could have taken trips to Mexico and built houses, changed the lives of those less fortunate than myself.  I would have thanked God every day for all that He gave me, and prayed to be humble and remember that without Him I was nothing.  I wouldn't worry about what I ate or how I looked, but how I treated others and what I was doing with my life.  I would have written every day, and took up photography, to capture life at it's most beautiful on paper.  And when it came time to apply to colleges, I would apply to Duke and to Cornell and Stanford and Yale, without having to worry about grades or about the money it took to get an education.  I would have applied for financial aid and done everything in my power to earn scholarships.  I wouldn't worry about boyfriends, but kept friendships with those who knew and understood me.  I would have made myself a promise to stay pure until after I married.  I would have vowed to fall in love with life and with God every day, remembering that this wasn't the way it was meant to be, that I was lucky to be living the way I was.  I never would have thought about modeling, or drinking, or doing anything that I knew was morally wrong.  I would have gone to college, majored in linguistics and Foreign Relations, and hoped to obtain a job in International Affairs.  But I guess the last line is more of what I can do, than what I should have done.  It's weird to think about, because I am going into linguistics, only it's through the Air Force instead of college.  It almost makes me want to lie about my past, pretend I was everything I could have ever dreamt about.  But it's not like I am the same person now that I would have been if I'd gotten out when I had the chance.  The damage is done, and I don't know how to undo it.  Maybe I will make it in International Affairs, but that doesn't change the fact that I can't think about 5th-12th grade without getting physically sick.  I can't get into a relationship without screwing it up; either by being too clingy or pushing the person away.   I can't sleep at night; eric and I even came up with who I would be if I were a superhero; insomniawoman.  I still have nightmares on many of the nights I do sleep; other times it's dreams where I'm always searching for, or running away from, something...I never find out what it is.  I'll have a day where everything is perfectly normal and I'm feeling fine, then suddenly I'm cracking up and feeling as though the world is going to end; even going into the Air Force and possibly accomplishing my life's dream can't change that.  High School; the best years of our lives.  I wish I could go back to little 5th grade Amanda and tell her everything she should do so they could be.  It's not even about the family any more; I'm being selfish.  They screwed up their own lives, and I was too young to realize I could have fixed mine.   And I wonder, in years to come, what 25 year old amanda would have said to me today, so the next 7 years of my life won't be screwed up as well.  Maybe "Get over it."?  God, I'm trying.  "Get counseling."?  Quite possible.  "Get out of there."? A hard thing to do with only a little money and no car or driver's liscence.  "Get a liscence, get a car, and go from there."? Have you ever heard the lyrics to "fast car"  by Tracey Chapman? 

Flash Back to Kindergarden- Saint Patrick's day.  When you walk into the classroom and everything is just (gasp!) CRAAZY!  Like the chairs are on top of the desks and the calendar is turned upside-down and everything is green because omygosh the LEPRECHAUNS came the night before and caused a little mischeif, and all the students are so SHOCKED because it's not like the same thing happened to every class every year since the beginning of time on Saint Patrick's day...Ahh the innocence of youth.  The teachers totally play it for everything it's worth too- I remember my kindergarden St. Patricks Day experience (My teacher Mrs. Busch; a tiny, hairy lady, with a slight unibrow and habbit of saying "faaabulous!" and "Briiliant!" whenever anything seemed to be either one of the two.) After all us kids screeched at the total OUTRAGOUSNESS of the room (the chairs were upside down!!!) *sidenote I really hoping you're getting the sarcasm here... we discovered GOLD our places around the good morning circle!  Just because the Leprechauns were such nice tiny little people and had nothing better to do with their time than leave these miniature treasures for the youngsters of McPolin Elementary!  How fortunate we were!  How Blessed!  I remember picking up that treasure in my sweaty little hand, and imagining all the magical places that gold had been, wondering when I would get to see those places myself (because when you're 5 years old, there's no "if", it's always and only "when.") Being 5 is beautiful.  You're walking through life wrapped in metaphorical bubble wrap; nothing can blemish your un-freckled flesh, shyly peaking from beneath your new osh-gosh-bgosh dress, recently purchased from JCPenny's for 12.99. 
But eventually (and this is inevitable) reality manages to creep between your grimy, sand-box hands.  You hold open your exitement- dampened little palm, for one last glance at your marvelous gem before the clanking cowbell signalls the end of play time, and stop short.  There's no doubt in your half-decade old mind that something is different about this treasure, this "golden medallion."  It's melting in your palm, from the heat of the afternoon sunlight and the death grip you've had on it.  No longer something worthy of leprechauns, what you now hold in your hand is a smudged penny, it's gold spray paint lost in the crevices of your lifeline, about the same place your visions of magic ran off to. 

Guilt.  The one emotion I feel 24 hours a day, seven days a week.  I understand this isn't normal.  Some people may experience the occasional thought, "oh, I shouldn't be doing this.." and continue on their merry way, eventually forgetting what the sinful little deed they commited was, and once again return to the Blissful hell-like state that is being a teenager.  But this feeling is one I can't seem to shake; I feel guilty for being happy because that means I'm vain and praising myself when really I should be focusing on others.  I feel guilty when I'm sad because my life isn't that hard and what right do I have to complain when their are children starving in Africa? I even manage to feel guilty for feeling guilty...because what other explanation is there for the feeling of guilt but the obvious fact that my behavior has been somewhat less than stellar?  The mere thought of doing something "wrong" sends me into a full fledged panic attack; everything I know teaches me that there's something missing in my character if I'm not content with playing the role of "the good girl."  It's like I'm wearing this mask that belongs to someone else; only I forgot it's made out of glass and everyone can see through it.  99.99% of my actions either stem from, or create guilt.  Example; today I ate a Twix.  One of those mini ones they hand out like at Halloween time; my brother brought it home from work and said I could have it. No big deal right?  Most people wouldn't freak out at the thought of that miniature bundle of fat congealing inside their body; expanding itself like "The Blob", preparing to ooze its way into the fatty cellulite pockets of one's thighs, a step closer to whale-like obsesity...even writing about it gives me the chills.  The psycho killer from "Texas Chainsaw"  can't compete with the frightening possibility that somewhere in the depths of my freezer lurks a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream.  If my feelings of apprehension limited themselves to the confines of food, I would have an understandable problem; one which plagues teenage girls (and even some guys) nation wide.  But that simply isn't the case.  My problem is life.  I can't even pray without feeling guilty.  I'll be sitting there chattin it up with the big guy trying to say thanks for everything...but I always end up apologizing, or reviewing the day and realizing how many mistakes I made, people I may have inadvertantly insulted or blown off; things I should have done said thought or felt.  At night I lie awake in bed wondering when lightning will strike me for being such a horrible person; falling asleep hours later only to dream crazy dreams where I beg for forgiveness and never recieve it.  Sometimes I want to escape it all and numb my thoughts by any means necessary.  And it's thoughts like these that send me sprinting to the gym, praying over and over again, donating to charities and desperately wanting to save others from their problems in life, hoping that in some backhanded way it will asuage my own negative thoughts and maybe I can even save myself.  At first I thought I'd lost faith.  But maybe it's just that now I'm painfully aware of each imperfection.  I tell myself to get over myself; breathe in breathe out get on with life.  But even the air I breathe is thick with guilt.  

It’s amazing what guilt can make us do. Like run. At 5 in the morning before school on a Tuesday. I swear I’m not crazy. Like any sane person, I slept last night the restful slumber of a person expecting to awake the next morning to the soothing melody of my alarm clock at precisely 5:45; about the time the sun just barely starts to peak over the edge of the world. Unless the sun is up, it’s still the middle of the night in my book. Apparently my mom doesn’t share my morning philosophy. The hour is dark, and I feel a heavy “THUMP!” of something solid making contact with my head. A rock? No, a shoe. My perfectly worn in blue and white adidas running shoes that I bought last summer to be exact. On Sale for only $35.99. A great find no doubt, but I question whether they were intended to be used as a bludger on the heads of defenseless teenage girls. I open one eye, all squinty like, to see my mom’s pseudo cheerful face inches away from my own. “GAh!” I gasp. Can’t help it. The mom isn’t a pretty sight at this hour. Especially when I notice she’s dressed in sweats and running shoes, hair pulled into a curly ponytail on the top of her head, looking like middle-aged workout Barbie. “Up and At-em!” her voice booms into my ear, a few decibels too loud for the fuzzy state of half awareness I’m in. I don’t know about you, but I HATE happy people in the morning. If there were any justice they would be shipped off to an island where only happy morning people are allowed to co-exist together, while the rest of us have our morning hours in peace so we can grab a power bar, listen to a lil’ John Mayer, and maybe sing along a chorus or two. Is that too much to ask? As I formulate my plan for creating a giant cage for these happy morning people, my mom is in the process of pulling the sheets of my bed, my pillow, and, oh yea...me. Her dialogue goes a little something like this, “Get up get up get up! What are you doing in bed sleepy head? (I swear to God my mom sounds like this) The sun is saying good morning!” When she notices that this isn’t getting much of a reaction (read; no signs of life on my part) the tone of her voice changes to a lower, more dangerous octave, “Amandalyn Walker get out of bed right now! You didn’t go to swim practice yesterday, how do you expect to do well in life if you’re so lazy? You ARE going running, you don’t have a choice! When you get to Basic Training you’re going to have to do this EVERY DAY so you’d better get used to it!” It’s the Air Force comment that gets me going. Groan. Why does she have to bring that into everything? “In the Air Force you won’t get away with talking on the computer to your friends.” “In the Air Force they won’t put up with your messy room.” “In the Air Force they won’t let you mouth off like that.” And the sad thing is, it works. I get off the computer. Clean my room. Shut up and listen to her. Because as crazy as it sounds, I know she’s right, and I want this more than I’ve wanted anything else in my life. It’s almost like God offered me everything I could ever want on a silver platter, and I’m an idiot if I don’t take it for everything it’s worth. For the first time in a long time I’ll have extra money lying around that I can spend, my own room, my own BATHROOM thank God, a job I love, free gym, mondo benefits, a life, a family. Yesterday someone asked me if I was joining the air Force because I’ve never had a stable family life, and I’m using this as a substitute. Like I think of my recruiter as a type of father figure. Yesterday I was kind of mad but now it makes a lot of sense. And so what if that’s part of it? I don’t have that mom dad 2.5 kid standard with the white picket fence and a big back yard. Maybe that’s why I’m doing it. I don’t know. Maybe I just want some kind of family. So what if it’s lame, but I’d do anything for one. Which brings me back to the my 5 AM run. Cold. Very cold. With my mom “encouraging” me the whole hour. What did this “encouragement” sound like, you ask? “Pick up your legs! What are you doing amanda? pick it up pick it UP!” *wheeze wheeze* Naturally, once school ended I got home to the comfort of a lean cuisine, chicken and broccoli. Tasty. Just about to enjoy it in fact, when I sit at the table and what’s staring me in the face? Air Force flyer. Sheesh. Ridiculous how they’re so hardcore about everything, like their academics program, combat training and...running. Dropping my uneaten microwavable delisciousness on the table with a dull “thwAk”, I take the stairs two at a time to the pristine cleanliness of my newly cleaned/organized/vacuumed room. Pull out the old running shorts. Sports Bra. Soccer T-shirt. Lucky adidas. Do the laces, bunny-ear style, like they taught us in pre-school. Two seconds and I’m out the door cutting through the chilly air with long strides, lungs burning and my house behind me, growing smaller and smaller until it’s just a speck in the distance, and then it’s gone entirely. I’ve escaped for the time being. Nothing but me and the pavement and my own ragged breathing. Now I’m home, and I’m tired, and I hurt. I swear, it’s amazing the things guilt can make us do. And do well. I should tell like Olympic trainers about it or something; get them to tell their athletes that they’ll never amount to anything unless they work their hardest, that their entire life will be screwed up if they don’t get it right. Nothing like a little healthy fear to get the blood pumping. Maybe I could bottle it up and sell it to the pharmaceutical companies. Guilt in a pill or something. You laugh, but know it’s true. And I sure as heck do. Example; the mom just got home. Guess where she wants me to go with her? Gym. Damn Skippy she wants me to go. And I know I will. But I WON’T run again today that’s it! I’ll just do a little bit of arm weights. And sit ups. And Maybe a lil stairmaster. But that’s IT! I’m putting my foot down. Sometimes I’m just a Rock in my opinion...

 

 

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequte.  Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.  It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.  We ask ourselves, "Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous?" Actually, who are you not to be?  Your playing small does not serve the world.  There is nothing enlightening about shrinking, so that other people won't feel insecure around you.  We are born to make manifest the glory that is within us.  It's not just in some of us, it's in everyone.  And, as we let our own light shine we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.  Are we are liberated from our own fea, our pressence automatically liberates others.