THE RISK I TOOK WAS CALCULATED

In this, I play with first lines, and shift into exploration of myself.

The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math. I dropped from the seventh story window, fell about 70 feet, through a street awning and into a table of fruit. I probably broke something, but with the Juice in my veins, I couldn't feel a goddamn thing. I don't know if it actually made me immortal, but I hopped up and out of the way a second before a big chunk of concrete from the 7th story floor followed me. *Huh. They must be doing renovations.* I sprinted down a side alley, flying toward the street faster than my mind could follow. *If fishes were wishes, we'd all be sardines.* I'm not exactly sure what that meant, but I really wished I was a fish right then, as I came into the open street and saw the Colossus and the squad cars, and the several Authorizers, all guns trained on me, waiting in ambush. I have to say, I liked the attention. I ducked out of the way just as they all opened up on me at once. A few bullets cut through my skin, burned through my flesh, and blew out my back, but that's okay. They felt like warm piss compared to the Juice in my veins. The broken bones or whatever had already started to heal. *Hmm... That reminds me, I really gotta pee.* I darted down a subway entrance, past crowds of people, and through the turnstile, busting off its hinges as I tossed it aside, and onto the first set of tracks, to catch the first train to come by. It was a B... I didn't know where it was going -- I forgot to check the map, but -- Ah! I could see in through the window... The B Train was taking me... to Harlem! *HA HA HAAA! WATCH OUT HARLEM CHAPTER! I'M CRASHIN' YOUR BIG RIG BOOM DIGGITY!*

The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math. Immediately, even as I realized my mistake, debris began to smack into the broadside of my great ship, and bucket of life-giving air, *Gamal*. I spun her, and pushed full thrust just as the main body of the asteroid base came darting passed. It was close. Close enough to clip *Gamal's* ass and send us spinning unstably in a gut-wrenching pukefest into space. I juiced my veins and cut thrust, gripping the stick, trying, and succeeding, gradually, to get out of the tumble.

This moment, I wonder if I'm in the right place, at the right time, and whether I should be in my notebook instead, but as my hands fly across they keyboard, I know, for better or worse, I am here. The words spill from my fingertips, and the page recieves them. Better to talk and type, and have something heard, than think to myself and stew, I suppose. Real writeres can write from anywhere, with anything, on anything. To the real writer inside me, it doesn't matter if I have a laptop, a typewriter, a pen, a keyboard, paper, dirt.. I will write because I can, however I can. I write to express. I write to feel. I write to be heard. I write to listen. I write to know, and understand, somehow, maybe, the things I feel -- what's inside of me, what drives me to create. And through exploring this, I might find what drives us all.

**BE BOLD.** If we can't be bold, then we are subject to the tides and currents of our own circumstances. It is possible, nay, undeniable that we move, have goals, make plans, achieve them, but without boldness, the places we go, and the things we do are not our own. They are set up and executed by our circumstances, rather than our desires. There is good in this, too. It is important to be fluid and adaptive to the changes around us, yet in this process of being fluid, we must remember to cut through to the desires of our hearts. In this way, we don't become lost and distanced from ourselves as we travel; We travel knowing full well who we are, and where we are, and our circumstances are made better for it.

It is a trying time to be alive, and without all the thoughts that make us human, we might feel naked, exposed, and unfamiliar. *Something else.* Yet whatever that is, cannot be anything but us, if we are simultaneously naked. Rather, the things that we think we are, and the things that we truly are, are often radically different. It is important to acknowledge this difference, and appreciate it. Through this appreciation, we realize we can be many varied things, yet at the heart of all of it is us, immortal, immutable, strange. That strange, amorphous thing that is our naked selves is so different, unfamiliar, and yet, it has been with us, *is* us, our entire lives. Beautiful.

I think I'm ready to write. Funny thing is, I've been writing all this time, seeing as a writer even longer, and only recently, denying it, trying to force it, mold it, and control it. This loss of control is so freeing and relaxing, and familiar, yet it surprised me yet again! It's like suddenly letting go of the reins of a stubborn horse, or unclenching my fist around a lump of clay. Yes, now I can't tell the horse where to go, or shape the clay the way I envision, but I'm no longer exhausting myself. I can regain my energy, and try again, or try anew. Besides, telling a horse where to go gives no guarantee that he'll listen.

Truth be told, I don't think I actually *want* to write, even after that small epiphany back there. I think I'd rather nap, or eat ham, or watch TV, because I feel tired. My head feels small, my eyes heavy, and my body slow. If I write now, I'm not sure I'll enjoy it, I might try to force it, and yes, I know it's simple: Don't try those things, and yet, I believe I may. I'm reminded of a time a few weeks ago when I was on a writing spree. Not all of it was good, but it was all quite opening. The writing was true, and in this particular memory, I was about to go to sleep. I was exhausted. It had been a long day, and I had barely written anything the whole time, but I wanted to have something done that day. I wanted to write something, no matter how bad or disinteresting, as long as it was true, and of a decent volume, if possible. That night, I wrote a very insightful self-reflective piece about my writing itself. The longer I write now, the more sleepy I become. The more I remember that night, and feel parallels to how I felt then. Only it's late-afternoon now, the sun will be setting in about 10 minutes, and it hasn't been a long day at all. Perhaps I should nap, take the edge off, and recenter myself. Process this a little while longer, so that I can come back with greater zeal and focus. This is a pretty decent body of text for one writing session, *with* writer's block. I can come back in a few hours, and write that great American novel I keep dreaming about.

Now to sleep, eat ham, and watch TV...
Perhaps not in that order.