AAAAHHHHHHH

What the eff am I going to end up doing with my life?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

On the plus side, at least I can do a floor routine.

::would like to run outside and scream a little, into the night::

::at least I know I'm not alone in this sentiment::

Back in high school, I figured that whatever I picked, I could do. Now, I'm not so sure. Or maybe it remains true, this rare sense of self-belief. I just need to manifest it.

Up, up, and awayyyyyy!!!!!!!!!!!

color

I take notes diligently, read the assigned texts, and wonder all the while what the hell I'm going to make of myself.

Class participation: pretending to give a damn, but in fact talking for the sake of talking. While your hand is raised, the only thing you notice is that the person speaking hasn't yet made your point. Then, of course, your point is shot down from time to time. But you'll try again anyway. Gotta maximize that twenty percent of your grade, besides making it to class and looking alive. ("Looking," of course, is not synonymous with "being.")

Do I want to be the one to make superior analyses? Do I wish my mind had made that connection? Certainly. But arrogance irritates, even if it is not intended.

I'm sure that many years, in many classrooms, people have prepared for a cozy nap as I raised my hand.

But color makes the difference. Swirls and splashes. Use big words only if you don't fear to say, "Um, like..." when "me and her..." I may be a nerd indeed, but I want to shake you sometimes and bring warmth to your stoic gray, even if your new vigor breeds a mistake or two. You'd be far more bearable.

I wonder what you dream at night as you ritually lay down at the appointed hour (right to the minute, I'd guess). Do you even dream in color? When you point to life experiences, what have you to show? Was it something you read elsewhere?

I read and say, "Damn, I wish I wrote that."

I want to live. Those lines you pour over and analyze, I want those to someday be the ones I wrote.

Here's to the cone-stealers, the pecan-square-thiefs, the random drivers, the ones who pump up the music and sing out of tune, the ones who give a damn for each other but not for limits of time or space or possibility. Here's to the stories we weave each day, the laughs and commentary we find amidst the most mundane circumstances. The horizon tantalizes. No ending here.

double time

Or half time? I can't decide which. Double practices makes each day feel like two. Has it only been a week?

I do know that I have odd bread cravings. Rain (rain? Why rain?) pours. Just yesterday, the sun peered out and I squinted my eyes. Not today. Ice doesn't feel cold enough when the throb burns hotter than usual. Funny things have happened, pictures snapped, comments swapped. Everything is better than a year ago, that is for sure.

Gray seeps in some days. Sometimes I shift in my own skin, not sure if it's all right or what to do with myself. Orange juice and milk freeze by the morning. I'd like to be clever, but I'm not always inspired.

But color will return.

In the meantime, I close my eyes. In the darkness, I see you.

tracing

If I hear these chords, I can imagine your willing ears. If I sing these harmonies, perhaps your voice will ring with mine.

I'll learn who you are, the person behind the words and laughs and snips of song lyrics.

You will read, write, witness. Will you imagine my eyes running before you over these words? Will you know me?

I would like to follow the path of someone strong and skilled. Leave your traces and I'll learn the way.

Someday, hopefully, these will become a part of who I am. Who I will be.