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say my name in the morning20 May 2007 - 02:18 If I didn't have to wait for the bus and distract myself from cold and boredom, I would not take this time to record my life. Starting over. In this chapter of my remembered existence, my cycles are unlike those of any other time. I feel as though my life completely breaks down about once a month. That might sound really awful, but it's not. First, I'm somewhat used to terror, confusion, and what I will call trustful hopelessness -- that knowing that I will figure out how to get out of a conundrum while being utterly baffled by it. Second, every time my sand castle washes away, I am left with a beach of glittering sand, endless possibility, and vision to build a new world. And a maddening love for those crashing waves. I wish I could give you details that would flesh all of this out, but what is important is the rush of enthusiasm I get about life when I am about to begin building again. That's a feeling that is independent of details, a feeling that renders details irrelevant. The other day I was walking across my glittering beach to the grocery store. The sun nearly blinded me, and the cars racing along Sandy Blvd. sounded like waves, and I felt something that I've suspected for a long time: What I do does not matter at all. I thought about all the different choices I could have made in the last few years, last few days, last few moments, and I felt as though no set of outcomes could have made my heart sing louder than it was in that moment. I saw a tiny bird in a newly planted tree, and it was the most beautiful sight the sun could show me. What I have to show for where I am in life and what I have done is not a famous painting or a wing in a hospital in my name or a huge bank account balance. It's not a child. At this point, I am not really sure it's much of a difference in anyone else's life. What I have to show for all this is me.
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