Everyone In Our School Has

I Am Made For Running. Because When You Run, You Could Be Anyone. You Hone Yourself Into A Body, Nothing More Or Less Than A Body. You Respond As A Body, To The Body. If You Are Racing To Win, You Have No Thoughts But The Body's Thoughts, No Goals But The Body's Goals. You Obliterate Yourself In The Name Of Speed. You Negate Yourself In Order To Make It Past The Finish Line.

This Isn't Even Something I've Feared, Because I Never Knew It Was A Possibility.

Such A Strange Thing, To Hold A Six-year-old's Hand. Especially A Six-year-old You've Only Just Met. A Toddler Will Grab Hold Of Your Finger, And Someone Your Own Age Will Clasp On To Your Whole Hand, But With Six-year-olds It's Something In Between, This Acknowledgment That They Can't Be The One To Take Hold, So You Have To Do All The Holding, Folding Your Hand Around Theirs, Feeling So Much Bigger And Responsible.

Instead I Head To The Computer And It's Like I Turn Into A Little Girl Who's Just Seen Her First Rainbow. I Get All Giddy And Nervous And Hopeful And Despairing And I Tell Myself Not To Look Obsessively At My Buddy List, But It Might As Well Be Projected Onto The Insides Of My Eyelids. At 8:05 His Name Pops Up, And I Start To Count. I Only Get To Twelve Before His Im Pops Up.

The Key Is To Never Recognize These Imbalances. To Not Let The Dauntingness Daunt Us.