less than three...

The dust is in my eyes and my boots are kicked up, I've won a lot of heartsick prizes along the way. I've picked up so much and left even more behind. I never see these things when they're sticking to my skin, but I'm certainly better off for everything that I let in. To be certain, I'm better for what I let in than what I choose to keep out. I lost way too much way too young, and the with all the promise and work left undone. It's funny to think that all that guards me is some created imaginary median line and I used to fear that brutal crossing over. Now it's time and it's not painful at all, and not nearly as frightening as I once imagined.

One days those bullies will be withered up and spent. The father, son, the holy warriors, and the president will fall from the imagined grace of our reverence. Those glory days when we kept up our fists for all the world to see will beat them - and maybe us - into submission in the name of the free. I've heard it said that we're in an evolution, but we're all so busy now that we can't even keep our heads. How do we get ahead? Planets eternally pirouetting and atoms that are cleaved in half remind me that it all will keep moving.

Those crosses on the side of the road tied with ribbons look lonely with the flowers that will die in commiseration for the memories with which they were laid to rest. They remind me, daily, how lucky I am to be able to walk this mile. I lay down at night and smile to myself at my luck. Wake me up again. There's a poem in my head. I don't believe in war but I do believe in luck. The birds call to me in the morning; what are they saying? The gate blows open and the trees sway in the wind. I pass the cemetery sometimes and stop to think. The names forever written in stone beg a silent prayer. When I come home it is time for supper and I know that all I can ask is to be loved, and the only way to ask for that is to give it myself.

I wasn't looking for a lover or a friend. I wasn't pretending and I wasn't working undercover. You walked across that space, an imagined dance floor in my mind, and you said the only thing that could have been said. Intricate steps of a dance I never learned played out in front of me and suddenly I knew how to move. I knew that I wanted to see more and I knew that I would try. Eye contact is all that is needed at times. I don't want to be saved, and I don't want to wake. Let me sleep. I was born a Gemini. I don't mind confiding, or even the word vomit. I've been misled and misguided, and I am easily led astray. I dance with disaster, and I rarely miss a step. I spin faster and faster, long after many have slipped. In the middle of everything there's someone to break the fall. Over and over, again and again. I stumble on in.

I am pulled in so many directions, but I choose my own no longer burdened with regret. I dive in over my head and find a way to stay above water. There is a perfect protection. I am soaked to the skin, but water is my home. There are bones in my closet; I've collected quite a few over the years. Goodness knows what causes any two peoples' timing to coincide or what brought this fool to where she is now. Love a fool!

There is no time and no space and there is a permanent smile on my face. My friends have complained that I'm going insane, but the truth is...we're all just afraid. That's okay. My fear has been thrown out, for it's not worth the time. We all decide what counts for us, and for me it's in everything. Outside, inside, actions, reactions... It's not a lie. What brighter light is there? I'm going with the tide and the angel on my shoulder wonders just why I've blindfolded her.

blackbird singing in the dead of night...

For those of you who have not heard of this woman, you MUST now go find her. She is amazing. Her name is Julie Fowlis and she has and amazing voice. She sings in both Scottish Gaelic and English. I, myself, heard her on Mojo Presents the White Album Recovered. This album is a compilation done by various artists covering the Beatles' White Album. Amazing. She sings Blackbird in bothe English and Gaelic and the experience is somewhat amazing in my own humble opinion. So, go find her, go listen to her, and marvel in her beauty.


That being said, I can move on to topics more pertinent at this moment. The first of which being my recent re-acquisition of a claddagh ring. I have not had one in a few years, and I am glad to (once again) have one on my hand. To me it always felt as though something were missing in a way. For those who care to know, it is indeed on my right hand facing in. Most of you reading this may well not know what that means, but those of you do each acquire a few points each, because that's just cool. So, thus armed with my two rings, I go out into the world feeling at the very least secure in my own personal connections to the past, the present, and the future yet to be written.

I find more and more as I walk along that things are rarely how I thought that they might ever be. I had a very clear plan on how things were to go and where I thought I would be right now. As seconds pass me by I realize that these things aren't what I really wanted at all, and that what I really want were the last things I would have thought to ask for years ago. I was certain, at one point, that I would have it figured out by now. If I had been where I wanted to be, I wouldn't be where I am, and that would be such a shame.

someone once said 'all good things must come to an end'...what a load of crap

It really is sort of funny, because these kinds of ideas really are ridiculous. They have no basis in reality and we hang on to them with some sort of ridiculous tenacity that makes absolutely no sense. We form ideals and pictures in our minds about what we think we need or want and they have no foundation in actuality. So, why cling to them?

i mean, sure, the good things have to end, but the bad things have to end too. and then they all start over again. that's just life. and you can spend your time worrying about the bad things, but it'll kind of keep you from noticing the good things, so i wouldn't recommend it

The nature of life is this cyclical pattern that reoccurs at every turn. The problem really is that everything in a circle is a turn. We find patterns that repeat because that is how we associate and log things in our minds. Comparison is as much a trait of humanity as is emotion. There is no good without bad and no recognition of light without the emptiness of night. We go on the best we know how with the experience we have and make good on what we get and give. How else would we know how to live? The condition of humanity is such that we can only do what we know with what we are given. We can choose to make it good or we can sit and pine on what we do not have, but that is sort of a waste of time at the end of the day.

i don't really know what i'd recommend, come to think of it

I really don't know any better than the next guy what is right or wrong beyond my own experience or knowledge. I feel and experience the same as the next guy, and that is all I can do. I enjoy living like that because without that kind of subjective knowledge and basis for action I would have no grounding. I can't tell you what is best for you because only you know that. I can tell you what I would do and what I think, but you must take that advice and those words and shape them to fit your own life and experience. There is nothing else to be done for it.

really, the only time things end is when you die. that's pretty final - but not always

We go on as though there is some sort of time line that is going to end a some predetermined point ahead of us. But our influence and impact on this world never really ends. It just is. we are still quoting the works and actions of people who came before us and they still have impacts on our lives in ways that those same people never could have known. When I quote MLK to a man on the street and he ponders those words, does not the man who originally spoke those words still impact the lives of those who lived past his own life? Is that death? is death final? Not always.

people say they're trying to 'make their mark on the world' before they die - that's another kind of silly thing to say. you can't make your mark on the world unless you've got a bulldozer or know the secret of making crop circles when no one is looking.

It's not about the physical world and what we do here. The things that are more abstract make such a bigger impact on this world. The physical world does not last, as our physical bodies do not.

i figure if you're going to leave your mark, you should leave it with people, rather than inanimate things. leave it by the words you say, or the things you do. the good things, and the bad things. they go hand in hand. i don't think there's a 'big mark' you leave so much as little ones, all over the place. here and there, people repeat something you say, because it was a good idea. or you made them think something differently. or you loved them is all.

People don't always see those little things as being as important as they really are until much later most of the time. Being unrecognized for the littlest of things is the way to go on about life. Because when you've done something without recognition or pride involved, you've done so much more. There is an instinct in me that wants to simply see a smile on a stranger's face or watch as a person I care about does something for themselves that helps them. They don't always know it at the time, but it is important in that you've done something for them with no expectation of return. I'm always shocked at how grateful people are sometimes when I simply say thank you for something small. They understand the rarity of such things, and it can make their day. So, make someone's day. You never know who really needs it, and you might be that random act of kindness that makes someone feel better. Understand that as much as you may need the help, so do others. Go out of your way to see another's joy. You'd be surprised at it's results. We all have the days when we simply need that simple kindness. Some of the best moments in my life involved free cups of coffee from an understanding barista or a friend willing to stay up with me all night studying because I couldn't do it alone. There's a sense of comraderie there that cannot be replaced. Give it, take it, appreciate it. Le mo grása mise agus liomsa mo ghrá. Give what you get and get what you give. There is nothing else for it. And often enough it need not be talked about. For sometimes these sorts of things need not ever be spoken. I've told the full story only once, and that says something. There is something in those moments that makes baring your soul completely to another with no expectation of return that can be self-gratifying. The story is not always for them, and if they can understand that and give you the understanding that you need without being told than you may know that you have found, as Anne would say, a kindred spirit. And one I have found, and keep them I will if it is within my capability.

all those little marks you make, they'll add up to a big one, someday. and in the meantime, you should just live your life the best you can with what you've got to work with, and call it good.

There is no sense in making things harder than they need to be. We are all dealt a hand, and the deuce-seven can win, if played right. It's all in the play, not in the cards. There's a lot of using what you're given and knowing where to give up and when to keep going. For now, I take what I'm given and I am happy for that because it is good. It is most certainly good. You are good: for me, to me, and, most importantly, for and to yourself. I am better because of you and I like who and what I am when I am with you, and that is enough.

i guess that's what i'd recommend, come to think of it. and while you're at it, try not to take life too seriously, because sooner or later you're going to end up as it's punchline. and you can choose to be pissed off about it - or you can choose, instead, to laugh.

I CHOOSE TO LAUGH...

a bed to be made and a bed to lie in...

Part of me feel guilty for not spending this day in quiet remembrance of that Tuesday morning 7 years ago, but I cannot bring myself to do so. We've come so far since that day, and there's something beautiful in that. I cannot pretend that I feel that day anymore than the average person in this society. But, as it did with many, it touched me.

I have the mind of a skeptic and the heart of a child, which often lends me to a kind of self-discerning nature. These two should never meet, for they would certainly kill each other. I see my eyes in your eyes in my eyes, and the skew makes my head spin round like mad. It is time, certainly, to sweep the ashes and let the silence envelop us.

Wars, in themselves, can take many forms, and we have seen many, though not as many as some perhaps. We work our way through this world against the tides of people who would wish to see us fail. I collect my information and I stow it all away, I'm collecting you...all of you. In that I want to know you, understand you and connect with you. Motivation is small to name, and I don't like that smile applied so blindly to me the same as you would to any other just the same. I know better than any other what is happening inside, so why won't you call out to me? I feel the danger and the foolish thrills: oh, yes I will!

What it will or won't be doesn't matter. What is, so stop and look. I guess that you were lonely, that's why you called me on the phone. And in a moment of forgiveness, I didn't want to be alone and I answered. I guess that I was willing, more than I ever was before, to listen. You came knocking at my door again. I woke up smiling last night to realize that they were here, and it's time to come home. I guess I was hoping that you might finally understand, and in a moment of forgiveness that you would reach out and take my hand.

I know you're not one for baring witness or weakness, and I've always said that one wrong move would sell you out; but you've made so many mistakes. I can see now that you've kept your word, and even made it harder than it had to be. I wish I could save us the trouble and give me a little peace of mind. I can't live without you, and you will never realize that, no matter how many times I tell you that. I miss you, I love you, and I want you to come home.

I guess I was hoping that you would finally understand. Take my hand, it's been waiting for years for you to take it.

We talked all night and it came down to nothing. We started a fight that ended in silence and confusion. We're stuck, again, and where do we go from here? We get to decide what we think is no good. We have been sculpted from our youth, and all of this chipping away makes me tired. As for the turth? It seems like we just pick a theory, and thats the one that justifies our daily lives and backs us with quiver and arrows to protect openings. And when the warring begins, how quickly the wide open narrows into the smallness of our deconstruction. Things never really change, and they're the same as they ever were.

The plot is a predictable ending. And though it may seem grand with it's one speck of sand, and back to the hour glass we are going.

Sing to me
Sing me to sleep
Like my mother used to
Old songs long forgotten to time
...
Back when the sky was blue and my mind was clear
Back when simple red lines made sense in this world

Parallel, straight, perfection in chaos

Sing me to sleep, just like she used to
The only thing that makes sense is your song
...
Forgotten words and a song to a child who is now all grown up
When did that happen?
Sing me back to youth
Maybe then, I can be happy

wait long enough and people will surprise and impress you...

There are moments in life that define people and tell them things about themselves--and sometimes about this world--that they may never have wanted to know. If there were a way to control these impulses and reactions, the average person would take that chance. I know I would. As such, there are no ways to do such things. So, I go on living as I do the best way that I know how without concern to my inability to take control over these events. I have come to accept the things in my life that are beyond my control and take them with their prescribed grains of salt, however large those might happen to be. People will, I have learned, rarely live up to my expectations for this world, and I cannot expect them too either. I am, as I have often stated, often disappointed with the lack of thought and common sense that I find in the world around me. It saddens me to think that most people do not live up to their potential and, worst of all, most have no care to ever do so.

I have moments often. Moments in which silence and respectful distance is often required with me. I need to contemplate in these moments, otherwise I am likely never to calm down long enough to take that grain of salt that I have in my own hand. When those moments are intruded on I feel invaded, as though something precious has been taken from me and I believe will never again be able to have that again.

I appreciate the things in this world that people have to offer for what they are. I have my own set of expertises, but I cannot honestly expect other people to fit into those boxes. It would be ridiculous and an impossible kind of standard that I refuse to hold against the rest of the world. People will touch me, teach me, and see me for what there is and sometimes for what it not. That is enough.

I meet people every day and form judgments about them that may or may not be fair for what they are. Some days I choose to try and see the best in people. Those days happen more often than not. This is a good thing. I want people to be good, I hope they'll be good. Whatever proof I actually see of them, and however many times this world proves me wrong I still believe there is good out there. I believe that because it is true.

As disillusioned as I have become with this mentality in pocket, it pays off on occasion. Even though those occasions are few and far between, they are most certainly worth the wait. Though it does often mean that I don't always see that good, even if it is right in front of my face. I am so accustomed to having to dig for that goodness that having it given to me without expectation is odd. But this, this is a good thing. I did not see it right away, and I tried to turn a blind eye to it for a while, but I know now what has been gifted to me, and I shall endeavor to continue to know as much.

It is true, that people wrap themselves in layers. Be patient, for they are trying to show you something, trying to communicate no matter how little they will actually speak. Give them the time, the respect, and the patience so that you can hear it. Not only will you hear it, but you will also understand it. Be good to those people who expect less from you, for those are the one who deserve it the most. And those who expect preference without having done anything to deserve it are the ones you must be wary of. Keep your eyes open in this world, for losing your way is the worst of things.

Brick walls are there for a reason: they let us know how badly we want something. They are not there to keep people out, but rather they are there to stop those who do not want it badly enough. Brick walls are there to see who is willing to take the time to get inside, brick walls have a purpose and it is not loneliness.

no pun intended

Thus armed with 500 dollars worth of textbooks and supplies for the semester, I begin with a hurt back. 3 days (3 days?) filled with riding around on the back of a motorcycle, I suppose, might do that to a person. Coupled with this, we add an extreme lack of sleep, a copious amount of stress, and a wonder as to whether people really are what they say they are. Seeing as I was, as such, prepared for the start of classes I made my way to campus today. Four classes today, and 3 more tomorrow make for my ever increasingly busy schedule. I enjoy my classes so far, and am excited (to a degree) to keep going tomorrow. I confused one of my professors today, and I'm not sure she entirely believe in my linguistic abilities as I presented them to her. But, they are as such and will continue to be so, whether she chooses to believe me or not.

Having to re-shift my major research topic for the semester will prove annoying, but it stands as it is. I shall endeavor to endure. A huge thanks goes out to Mr. Wells (Brandon) for giving me some hope as to a new possible topic. As many of us history majors well know, this is most true. History is not, in fact, what we remember. Rather, history is what we choose to forget. So finding those things that have been purposefully forgotten and remembering them all over is a task set only to the bravest of historians, for many will avoid this endeavor entirely.

So, as the day is now over, I head home in the hopes that things will look better from there. The thought is doubtful, but a girl can hope, can't she? I am feeling a little discouraged, and it is only day one. I await another day in anxious anticipation of what it will add to my already growing list of worries and trials.

And...HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMANDA...I know I forgot to call you, and have as yet to do so, but I shall at some point. I just want you to know that I have not forgotten you, even if you are 3,000 miles away.

quit having illegitimate babies...

There is a significant area of my life and brain power that is constantly working in attempt to attain something that will forever be unattainable. An old friend of mine, Taylor (the male one), once read a quote from a book to me, as a bit of advice. He said this:

"Quit looking at symbols.
Go out and get a job.
Quit shooting each other.
Quit having illegitimate babies."

Now, the part that was intended as advice was, obviously, the first two lines. But we both liked the entire excerpt, and as such I include it here. What he was telling me, as one history major to another, was to get my head out of the bloody clouds and do something practical. This permanent state of chase that I find myself long ensconced in is very much fanciful. As I say many times, over and over, I was born seven years behind. That's a huge head start that my goal had on me. Unreachable really. As a result of my constant attempts to reach something far beyond my years or myself is what you have now. A girl who knows beyond herself. Eyes that are opened beyond the usual plane of perceptions, and ears that are listening for what remains unsaid. It is only possible to hear as much as you are looking for. If, and when, you open your senses to an infinite plane of possibilities it is likely that you will begin get infinite responses in return. As such, I am far more perceptive than the average person. There are seldom things that escape my attention. I've trained myself that way. The level of conversation I am capable of holding is beyond my years as well, because I constantly and consistently aspired to a level far beyond me, and often did quite well.

Despite all of this, I do make mistakes on frequent occasion. These mistakes are usually grievous in degree because they come to fruition as a result of my ego. As much as I see, I am also blind. My sense of self-importance buts blinders on my vision, and though I notice things, I often misinterpret them. So, what Taylor was telling me was to come back down to earth so that even though I may lose sight of some things (my fancy and my creativity for example) at least I'd be able to objectively interpret those things I did see.

I didn't listen. And thank goodness as well. These last months since that advice was given to me have included some of my most grievous mistakes that could have been avoided. But they also harkened the creation of some of my best creative work in my life. From my writing, to my drawing, to my performances, and even to my research, my ability to open my mind beyond the plane that my physical body resides in has given birth to amazing possibilities. I took those possibilities, nurtured them, watched them grow, and sent them on their way, as all parents are ought to do. I shaped them and gave them form, but beyond that they are not mine. They came to me in their entirety, and I turned them into something that this world could see, hear, read, and understand. In a way I feel excited, as that makes me something of a conduit for this kind of creative energy; and as parents are proud of their children's achievements, so I am proud of these creations.

My paintbrush has painted the way my skin feels when I think about some of my memories. Dead and cold. The lack of warmth and the desolation I feel sometimes. But it has also painted the brightness in eyes that are not my own. The happiness brought on by the simplest of acts and moments. From the very best to the worst, my brush has been there and reminds me every day why I wake up in the morning again. My pencil has sketched the lines of the people whose faces refuse to leave my mind. It traces the edges of the lips I have kissed and laments sadly on how some of them are lost to the person who holds the pencil now. The whiteness of the teeth that nipped my skin, and the curves of their fingers that once ran through my hair. My charcoal, smudged across my skin and the paper recalls the softness of the skin and hair that I myself touched. The charcoal on the paper and on my own skin brings the moment back one more time. My pen writes the words I never knew my mind had the capacity to even think. The kinds of darkness' that I refused to see for so very long. But given voice, those same blackness' make themselves beautiful. The kind of sombra that I usually spend my days looking over my shoulder for, comforted by it's strangely ominous presence. Peter Pan did not miss his own shadow until it was gone. I will not make that same mistake. It is a comfort in odd moments, its 2-dimensional actions mirroring mine at the oddest of angles and perspectives. The eclipse that falls over my own eyes as my hair sneaks free of its restraint and makes itself known over my face. My pen hears all of these calls and gives them the words to speak for themselves. And so those same shadows, darkness', sombra, and eclipses are given their own moments to shine (even though they cannot, in fact, give light as that would destroy them entirely) so that the world might see them and acknowledge them.

If my head were not so far beyond this physical world, these things would remain elusive to me. I would not know in fact how very much I miss the characters that are now written on my page. For they are all people, and the things that these characters do are things that these very same people have done. I would not know how deeply I had fallen in love with the one now called 'Tony', and I would also not know that I am in fact, also 'Tony' myself. There is something almost sordid about that arrangement. For my 'Tony' is in fact a real person separate from myself. And I did, indeed, fall for him. Tony in my writing reacts much the same way that the one in real life did. but at the same time, I am very much Tony, and as he goes along with his life I realize that I not only fell in love with another person, but also with myself. And, more importantly, I fell in love with the person that this person saw me to be. It's a sort of menage a trois, in which I am in love with two people, one of which who does not return the sentiment, another who does, but that one who does is in fact myself.

So, by having my head in the clouds I have been able to distance myself from the very personal situations I have created for myself. As I analyze these things more and more patterns creep up that I don't exactly want to see. I recognize pattern and theme in everything. Even in myself and my life, in the places and way that I don't want to see them. The patterns of what I allow others to do to me. How I allow them to use me, is not just scary, it's downright sinister in it's very nature. So the dreams that haunt my mind's eye at night when I really sleep for the first time in weeks are faces that I've seen before, and faces that I hoped I would never see again. But I do, when I close my eyes at night to sleep, I dream, and I dream of things that I wish would leave me. They do not. They have something they need to tell me in these moments, and I have not yet made myself ready to hear them. I'm not so sure there will be any peace until I do.

There are two sides of me debating at this moment. The first is my so-called practical side. The side that tells me that I should just deal with it, all at once. Rip the band-aid off, if you will. This is also the side that very nearly demands me to talk to people about everything, that tells me to "go get help." What does that mean anyway! Go get help? I'm not dying, well except for my incurable condition called life. And life itself is enough of condition to drive anyone insane.

The other side of me wants to patiently wait it all out. Take the dreams as they come and let them do their job. You do not interrupt a play and ask the actors to move straight to the end, you let them go through the scenes and acts and then it comes to you in a more complete picture than if it had been handed to you in the first place. This fanciful side believes the need to feel the process completely and encourages me to give voice to the despair of it in my creative endeavors, let myself feel the pain and sadness of it, because that itself might be the message. The strength can only come from the effort and pain of the experience. It can't just be given. Unless I use steroids, and I know that's not really a real option.

I feel powerless as this experience as this tragic journey has its way with me, for none of it really seems to be in my hands anymore, but if I could control it, it wouldn't be the same at all; and that would be a shame.

So, the only advice my twins can seem to agree on is this:

Fight the dream
Take back the right to dream
Fight the dream so that you may take back the RIGHT to dream
And with that, you may one day earn the right to live again

what is the good of your writing?

Well, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, Siobhan has joined the blog-o-sphere. This is due, in part, to a sort of promise I made to three of my oldest friends. Amanda, Jaki, Saleema, this is for you. Well, let's be perfectly honest here. It is also for me. But, I'm sure you three knew that already. So, with just 6 days left until I venture back to campus in pursuit of higher learning, I begin this adventure. The goal here, in truth, is really to keep those of you who I do not see or speak to on a daily basis updated on my life. So, it is sort of a time saver all around. I hope. Or a time waster depending on how I use it.

I give you a quote as something to ponder, as my friend Sean gave it to me the other day, as it (apparently) made him think of me and my writing:

"Thus, though we do not know what Shakespeare went through when he wrote LEAR, we do know what Carlyle went through when he wrote the FRENCH REVOLUTION; what Flaubert went through when he wrote MADAME BOVARY; what KEATS was going through when he tried to write poetry against the coming of death and the indifference of the world.
. . .
And one gathers from this enormous modern literature of confession and self-analysis that to write a work of genius is almost always a feat of prodigious difficulty. Everything is against the likelihood that it will come from the writer's mind whole and entire. Generally material circumstances are against it. Dogs will bark; people will interrupt; money must be made; health will break down. Further, accentuating all these difficulties and making them harder to bear is the world's notorious indifference. It does not ask people to write poems and novels and histories; it does not need them.

. . .
The world did not say to her as it said to them, 'Write if you choose; it makes no difference to me.' The world said with a guffaw, 'Write? What's the good of your writing?'

What struck me most perhaps about this passage, especially in relation to me and my writing, is the sheer indifference of it. It speaks so painfully about what a writer must go through in order to create something of this nature, and then tells them that it will merely be dismissed. Writers, unlike many other professions in this world, do not give the world or people something that they need. Sometimes it does not even give them something that they will want. But writers GIVE. And many writers give without much expectation of return. The process of writing, especially about something real and consuming, is a path I am just setting down myself, and finding to be dark and full of twists and turns.

Because what I am writing now is, at its base, about and obsession with the inevitability of death and they ways the world relates to that, we can see parallels with Keats' work and what he went through. Obviously, I am not comparing myself to Keats in the sense that I am at his level, but rather to say, I think I now understand how writers and painters and actors can get so lost in their work that they lose themselves. I feel compelled, at this juncture, to bring up Heath Ledger, who was told by an old actor of the Joker, that it was not a role to be taken lightly. It gets to people, is what he was told. And whether it got to him or not we may never really know, but there are connections to be drawn. Losing oneself in something so completely is dangerous. VERY dangerous.

Now, whether my darker introspection of myself and this world is actually related to the experience of writing what I am is somewhat irrelevant at this point. The fact is, I'm writing this work, and I have found myself becoming more introspective, intuitive, and a little morbid if truth be told.

But ultimately, as all things eventually are, it is in my hands and in my control. I've got the reins to stop or start or turn this horse where it will. Truth be told, I kind of like this adventure. It's not that I like being lost in the woods, it's just that the woods are the only place I can see a clear path.