I like words. Words make up sentences. Sentences make paragraphs and before you know it: you have a story. I am a story: I am living a story. My story really has no beginning and the end is no where in sight. It’s being written with each and every breath I breathe: no matter how painful those breaths may be sometimes. My story is love and laughter and pain and shock and loss and power and fear. It speaks of my candor and my caring and my loyalty and divine desire to simply live. My story is a comedy of errors and inevitable variables. It’s not a chose your own adventure where I can just go back and change directions if I do not like the outcome: oh how I wish it were. My story is full of learning. My story is full of chances taken and choices made: not all of them by me. My story occasionally promises a happily ever after, but then quickly adjusts itself to resemble a Blair Witch Project-esc story line where I am in the forest: I am frighted: there are tears on my cheeks and so much snot dripping down my face; turns out I am no ones princess. My story is full of navigating through my struggles and making peace with demons attempting to steal my soul and people who have turned into zombies that try very hard to bite me: to make me one of them (I have so far been successful at circumventing these outcomes. I am, however, getting tired of running). My story is full of promises that have been broken and truths that I did not want to know even though I asked for them. My story is full of strength gathered during long dark nights that I have survived. My story is apologies not made and explanations not granted. My story depicts the tale of someone allowing herself to be caught in the gravity of others and not being dauntless enough to be her own force in this world: yet. My story is full of splendidly beautiful life changing moments that have been drowned by the cunning behavior of others that sit alongside my memories of memories so full of elation that thinking of them sometimes makes my heart hurt so badly it stings my fingertips. My story promises tales of self inflicted pain designed by my masochistic nature: I have not yet figured out that if it hurts to do something I should probably stop doing it. My story promises incidents of my own bravery being shadowed by the antics of others attempting to knock me down and my eternal struggle to remain upright: I have been successful at this as well. Somewhere there is a shift and a change in the tenor of my story: from calm to chaos to nightmare to points where it plateaus for full chapters filled with nothing but wait and see what comes next moments: I am trying to not fall victim to believing in my friend Murphy and his law. There are chapters of me learning what I will and will not say, think or do: I will not hold on to anger as I think it is a useless emotion; I will always do my best to forgive and find peace at the end because those are things I can live with (Consequently, I try not to think of there being an end to anything: I believe in pauses instead). My story shares my struggle to sit still any longer: my need to move and explore and learn who I am: love and loss have left me empty and I desire to be as full as I can. Page by page my story continues to flow to create something beautiful: if you listen closely you can hear the crescendo of the music associated with my story. My story is scars and burns and slips trips and falls: I didn’t look to see the sign. It’s happy and funny and full of bad words and chance meetings with people that made me know what love actually feels like and make me crave that again. Word by word I carry on living my story. I can’t read ahead or I would: It would be nice to know what to expect next…just for awhile….just so I can be prepared. I carry on learning. So far: I have learned “it is what it is”. and that is about it. I carry what I carry and on I walk and write as I go. And I assure you: go I will.