Everyone is laughing.
Everyone belongs somewhere.

Except me.
I can't breathe.
I'm suffocating.

My sister runs her fingers through my hair.

Why can't I feel this loved and accepted all the time?

Why can't I love and accept myself all the time?

Why do I think everyone hates me?

my mind whispers: well, dear, you need to love yourself before you can think other people love you.

Normal people don't want to hurt themselves.

I'm not sure why I'm awake.

My stomach is telling me to eat.

But I'm telling my stomach not to grow.

I'm not sure what exhaustion plagues me more; fatigue from depression/stress/anxiety/workload/socialization/emotional upheaval or fatigue from explaining why a woman with a liberal arts degree is important in a man's world.

You’re the drug
I spit into my skin with a needle.



You’re the crimson

 that spills from my veins with a blade.



You’re my guilty pleasure,

 and I wouldn’t have it any

                                          other

                                          way.

it hurts better than any other pain.

for in the end:
    cuts will leave scars
        tears will leave wrinkles
            cigarettes will burn your lungs
                love will burn your heart

But hunger leaves you thin.

I have your scent and your pillow and your love but I can't sleep
without your chest to my cheek,

and my ears filled with the way your heart beats into my brain and settles in my throat and no I'd never boast that that's the only metronome I need.

I need your body and your hands and the burn of your lips on my skin to be sure I exist when my mind says I don't.

Your eyes have always told me that blue eyes are cold and hazel eyes can't make up their minds, that maybe green eyes are perfect, but you've obviously never seen your chocolate eyes shine.

I need to feel your gaze on my ******* and the swell of my hip to remind myself that I still exist, and **** I may even be living.

I miss you more than the amount of stars in a cubic mile of space, and I could have said infinity but us humans don't get to witness that grace...

And maybe that's fine because I'd rather love you with my handful of stars than the promise of the entire universe, in which I'd die without knowing your loving smile.

But if we did get forever, I'd spend mine with you, and weave you a new constellation with every change of the weather.

So maybe a picture is worth a thousand stars, because I'd barter any amount of the vast unknown universe to take a picture of your heart.

Specifically a picture of your heart, beneath your ribs and your lungs, beneath where my head rests.

Because I can't sleep without our metronome to count my breaths.

Because I need your heart to beat it's melody for head.

Because there's less than miles between us, there's less than walls that box in my longing for your touch.

Because I have your scent and your letters and your image in my brain,
but if it's all the same, I miss you more than I'd ever miss my last name.

I remember the night you sang Objects in the Mirror to me on the phone. 



I never thought that it would feel this way.

You never taught me how to heal the pain.

I wish you caught me on a different day, when it was easier to be happy.

I kinda find it strange, how the times have changed.

*

I remember how we used to talk about love, like it was an institutionalized little child, drug down from what glory it used to hold; how it used to transcend time and knowledge and beauty and all other emotion.



Someone like you is so hard to find.

I remember that you thought I was put together perfectly. I still don’t understand how you ever reached that end of the spectrum, completely opposite my own view. I still don’t understand how everyone around me sees someone that I don’t see when I look in the mirror. I’m anti-altruistic and unintelligent and completely guilt ridden and not at all beautiful.


All I ask is don’t you worry, I won’t hurt you, don’t you worry.



I remembered how much stock I put in you. I remember how you promised you wouldn’t hurt me, because you had been put through the same wringer as I. I remember how you just unattached yourself one day, on the bias that it was my fault. You stranded me. Probably for another, prettier, girl. 



Listen to me I will set you free,

He ain’t gonna break your heart again.



And I could never figured out what that particular line meant in the scheme of things, but I realize now, as you’re trying to drift back into my life with the drive of a listless breeze, you were setting me up for the next heartbreak. 
After all, all my life really is, is a string of heartbreak.



Go through the worst to reach the ecstasy.

Wish we could go and be free, once baby you and me,

We could change the world forever, and never come back again.


 
I remember the feeling that bloomed in my heart when I realized someone like you cared about someone like me. That someone like you wanted to fix someone like me. Then I reached the conclusion that depression and mental illness isn’t attractive. That you were drawn to the prettier parts of me that resembled tarnished silver, in the hopes that you would have time to break in your silver polish in the spare time and privacy of your awful little home town.



You don’t havta cry. 

And mend a broken hearted girl if you can, I don’t expect you to be capable. 

You have the world right in your hands, your responsibility is unescapable.



I realized that boys don’t like sad girls, but you could see what I could be. I thought you wanted to help me and fix me, but eventually shouldering a burden that isn’t your own gets too heavy to carry. It gets heavier and heavier through the crying, sleepless nights that you would guide me through with your lantern, which became duller each time I needed saving.



Don’t even say you’re about to end it all,

Your life is precious ain’t no need to go and **** yourself. 


Then you left.

On my watch.

On my fault.

On something that wasn’t really my fault.



I promise that I’ll be a different man,

Give me the chance to go and live again.



But here you are with nonchalance and no apologies for the tears wasted on you. 

There may be another boy toying with my broken pieces, fitting me together because he can see the beauty you saw. 

But here you are pretending you still care and still find me beautiful.

There may be beauty in this other boy who helps me, who is just as broken as me, another boy who shares my pain in what I’ve never gotten.

But here you are rehashing memories of nights spent crying over a song.



You don’t have to cry.

Let’s leave it all in the rearview.



But here I am, telling you that broken girls give second chances.



Let’s leave it all in the rearview.

But here I am, telling you that I’m halfway mended.



Let’s leave it all in the rearview.



But here I am, telling you that for me, once you’ve left you cannot re-enter.



Leave it all in the rearview.


there was a girl who dreamed of flying; over mountains and oceans and forests and beaches. She searched and sought ways to soar into the horizon. She tried to construct wings of wax and feathers, like Icarus. She tried to fashion contraptions similar to Orville and Wilbur’s. She tried to mix potions and find fairy dust and jump off high buildings with large sheets tied to her wrists.

She had almost given up hope,

                 until one day she met a boy. With startling brown eyes that shocked her into living. With rough, but soft, hands that cradled her porcelain fingers. With careful lips that whispered what she didn’t know needed to hear.



And after waiting so long,
        the boy had finally filled her with such sunlight, and warm oxygen, and such life that her feet lifted off of the ground. Her toes curled and her fingers splayed in the wind, and she grabbed his hand to show him the insides of clouds.

I used to think that love was having billions of elaborate words and beautiful phrases to describe someone’s beauty and how much you worship them.
I used to think that love was a tragic, oh so tragic, drama where heartbreak was inevitable and once it occurred you were set free. You were then freely allowed to write even more melancholic poems about how handsome their eyes are when they smile.

But now I know that it isn’t about writing lovely poems of how breathless they leave you; it’s about the feelings they leave you with that you cannot conjure or create words for.
But now I know that is isn’t about a grand sacrifice, a grand martyrdom, a grand abandonment of your tears and blood for their smile; it’s about compromising between fire & water, peace & war, the sun & the moon, to find a balance in which both factors can coexist.

But now I know that it isn’t about having an ocean of words you can use to describe the color of their eyes; it’s about being awestruck, with no existing adjective that could possibly capture how they make you feel, how godlike they appear to your eyes.

But now I know that it isn’t about being able to bring forth a tidal wave of glorious prose or soliloquy on their posture and grand gestures of self-pride; it’s about being speechless, where no phrase or paragraph or page will describe their tiny perfect gestures done in your name.

Love is allowing yourself to become so lost in someone, that it doesn’t matter what you have to say.
It’s as easy as letting your actions speak in place of your normally exquisite torrent of words.
It’s as easy as letting someone into your head & heart, so that they may share your feelings, for simply telling them with inadequate words would not be enough.
It would be so easy, to become swept away in the tide of emotion brought on by their presence.

That is to say, love isn’t easy.
Relationships aren’t easy.
Communication isn’t easy.
Trusting isn’t easy.
Love comes with a price.

Love that stirs apathetic crowds, love that launches a thousand ships, love that stops a million tears, love that changes the evil greedy world, love that rights wrongs, comes with a price. 

You must compromise.
You must bend but not break.
You must explore but not stray.
You must fight and communicate.
You must cry rivers of tears and break down the highest walls.
You must trust.

It is hard, it is the hardest thing you will ever do, but it must be done.

It is hard to trust so fully, trust so openly, that their love is what you exist on. It keeps you blindly shuffling through the dark, occasionally bumping heads and hurting one another.
It keeps you trying and pushing for more, because there are light spots in the dark, gloriously warm and inviting light spots where no shadows will ever exist.

It keeps you breathing, it keeps you surviving, it makes you human.

Trusting is hard, opening up is hard, we’re all just afraid of someone leaving us in the end, after the dust has settled and the battle has raged...right?
We’re all just afraid of letting someone close enough to see all of our nasty imperfections.
We’re all just afraid of letting someone close enough to decide that they do not like what lies underneath the beginnings of early affection.
We're all just afraid of letting someone close enough to show them each and every scar and smile, to explain each and every story of why they are there.
We’re all just afraid of rejection; and loving someone, and having someone love you in return, doesn’t vanquish this fear over night. 

I used to think that love was all winsome words and delightful thoughts and alluring formulas of letters.
But now I know that love is not all roses and forget-me-nots, yet it is not this dark twisted creature spewed from the broken hearts of young lovers.

Love is like every other valuable in this world, it is rare and it is to be treasured. It is to be held closely and grown and protected.
It is to be nourished and pruned and weeded.
It is a garden where only the most beautiful flowers may grow, if given the proper attention and care.
Yet, it is also to be treated like a wild beast: beautiful, and free, and pure, and dangerous.
It is a feeling of the world, of the earth, of the dirt.
It is wild and untamed and can turn it’s darkest face towards you at any moment.

Love is so much more than a poem, or a haunting melody, or a word meant to label some unreachable feeling.

Love is not easy, not always gentle, and never fully graspable.

And why write about things we cannot fully describe?

I used to think that love was having billions of elaborate words and beautiful phrases to describe someone’s beauty and how much you worship them.
I used to, and still think, that love is easy to define and clearly explain, but it is not.

Love, like every other cosmic and easily misconstrued notion of human existence, is not tied to any phrase, paragraph, or page.

You've marked me the way that Alexander the Great left 23 Alexandria's across Europe, Asia, and Africa.

You've marked me the way that Ramesses II built 25 temples in his honor in Egypt and Nubia.

Some days, I wake up flighty and itchy.

Crawling out of my skin and jumping at every last inhale and exhale. 

Crying at every last brush of my fingers on my scars.

Whimpering at having to be surrounded by a writhing mass of people.



These are the days when I’m most reminded of you.

Reminded of how you used to love me.

Reminded of how you used to hold me.

Reminded that you don’t care about me anymore.



These are the days when I wish I could still talk to you.

That you would still care about what I had to say.

I would probably ask you to hand me a scalpel and some scissors and the rubbing alcohol,
 because I need to cut you and your scar tissue permanently away from my heart. 

And even on these days I remember that you would have looked at me in anger and pity for saying such things (i.e. self-harm)



But these are also the days when I want to cut all of my emotions out.

Slice them away from my veins word by word.

Watch apathetically as I bleed the letters out.

All of these words and letters we have assigned to emotions, to try to describe the uncontrollable reactions we have in life.

Anger, Betrayal, Compassion, Exhaustion, Frustration, Guilt, Happiness, Indifference, Jealousy, Kindness, Love, Morbidity, Nervousness, Oppression, Peace, Remorse, Spite, Tranquility, Uncertainty, Vexation, and Yearning.
For, surely, it would be easier to be numb, than to go through all of these and many, many more?



To go through the long, unending cycles of good weeks, good months, and then bad days.

Sure, they’re less frequent than they used to be.
Sure, they’re few and far between.
Sure, it’s only 24 to 48 hours.

Sure, the medication quells the panic attacks and violent mood swings and poisonous thoughts.


But that just makes them worse when they surface.

Makes the paranoia worse.

Makes the anxiety worse.

Makes the self-abuse worse.

Makes me worse. 



On these days I remember,
That you ran away from me because I’m broken
,
and you aren’t a handy man capable of fixing me.

I can spend all of my time loving you, 
fixing you,
singing to you, worshiping you,
And in the end you cannot give these things back.


You aren’t perfect.
You aren’t chained to me.
You didn’t even want to claim me.
And after all, on these days,
Everything is my fault anyways.



Some days, 

The days when I wake up,
Begging to be locked in a sanitarium,
Sobbing and biting and kicking and screaming,
I’m reminded that you,
And no one else,
Will ever love me.

I sometimes stumble on words,
And I know they hurt
But I sometimes cannot say
what I mean to say,
and the words just get jumbled against my teeth.

Sometimes my thoughts just won't settle for weeks,
And I never know if it's my temporary insanity
or my perpetual restlessness,
That keeps tears streaming down my cheeks.
Even in the most inappropriate of times
I'm seen biting my lip and purging my mind,
And praying to every god in existence,
that my words will
For once, just come out right.

Words are such hurtful creatures
That never fail to reach us
where it really stings,
Deep in the pit of our stomachs
where our nerves sing
And where the words they live,
and fight to be kind.
But let's face it, our words never come out right.

And all I can taste is the regret in my mouth
and the blood on my tongue
And we're both far too young
to feel as if our world is already over when it's only begun.

And we're just beginning to breathe
and walk and arrange our talk,
In ways we simply hope can be beneficial to good communication.
Because what else exists in our day
other than misconstrued words and broken phrases.

I sometimes stumble on words
And they try to be kind,
but sometimes they just aren't quite right.

Kind of similar to my mind, and how it runs in circles
For words that are worthless at the end of the day,
when actions in fact speak louder than hurtful words.

Isn't that what our mother's teach us,
when we're so offended to learn
that light up sneakers
are not what they used to be and suddenly we aren't cool anymore.

Sticks and stones may break our bones,
But words will forever break us.

is one of those days.

one of the days where I know it would be easier to die than to continue fighting this losing battle.
one of the days where I know I wasn't meant to be alive this long.
one of the days where I crave contact, but know I don't deserve anyone's time.

today, I'd like to stop existing.

would it really be so bad to not wake up tomorrow?

Be patient.
     His heart is guarded and he has built walls around himself to keep others out. He deflects with humor and light words, he deflects by always being “okay”, he deflects by comically dunking on you—but one day his dams will break and his walls will crumble. You need to be patient for the day that this will happen. You need to be patient for the day that he will truly let you in, let you peek at his raw emotions, let you marvel at his strengths and weaknesses. Maybe it will not happen all at once, maybe it will happen as slowly as a river carves a canyon out of rock. You must be patient with him.

Be kind.
     He needs kindness like we all need air to breathe. He might not always think so, but he needs kind words, encouraging messages, thoughtful gestures. He needs kindness, the world hasn’t shown him enough of it.

Be compassionate.
     He pretends he doesn’t need these kind, gentle touches and kind, gentle words but he does. He is a desert parched for soft rainfall—give it to him. Be compassionate when he opens up about his mental health, his deepest fears, his family, and those who he loves. He is a man who loves deeply, and you must love deeply too. He is a man who cares deeply, and you must care deeply too.

Be understanding.
     He carries a lot of pain and a lot of tragedy—he has been dealt bad hand after bad hand. But he is trying. He is growing. He is making progress. Be understanding of his needs and his journey, be understanding of him.

Be resilient.
     He will try to shut down his feelings and shut out the world—it’s his tried and true way of survival. Don’t leave him just because he needs to do a hard reset on his emotions. Don’t leave him just because he seems like he’s okay. Don’t leave him just because he’s quiet when it rains. Don’t leave him just because he tries to push you away in his silence. Be resilient and never ending in your reassurance of him. Remind him quietly, or loudly, that he is yours and you’re not leaving.

Be honest.
     You must continually be honest because he’s been lied to, too many times. You must be honest and forceful whenever he refuses to accept compliments, because his truth about himself is poisoned by the pain he’s carried around in his lifetime. You must be honest with what you’re feeling, he just wants to help you and he cannot read your mind. You must be honest in letting him in. You must trust him and be honest in return.

Be yourself.
     He has no tolerance for fake smiles, fake feelings, or fake people. He has no need or want for mistruths, half-spun lies, or false claims. He needs authenticity. He needs someone who is genuine. He needs someone who said what they said and did what they did...maybe someone with the ability to know if they were wrong but not lie about their missteps. He needs someone who will show him all of their highs and lows, someone who will be unafraid of who they are, someone who will proudly be who they are instead of who they think he wants.

Be strong.
     He has been strong for everyone else for far too long. He needs someone to lean on, someone to support his aching arms, someone strong enough to share the weight he carries. He needs someone that will allow him to feel as deeply as he needs to, to be as weak as he needs to be. Be strong and be bold—for he is strong and bold, and needs the same to thrive.

Be hungry.
     He has a hunger for life, for laughter, for enjoyment, for smiling, for telling stories, for eating at his favorite Mexican places, for playing his favorite games. He has a bottomless hunger for affection, for great hamburgers, for passion, for art, for beautiful words, for learning new things, for dogs & cats, for white chocolate mochas, for jokes. You must be hungry enough to keep up with his appetite.

Be protective.
     He has been hurt too many times and he needs shelter from the world. He still cares so readily, so openly, and still gets hurt time and time again. Be protective of his sweetness, his softness, of his gentle moments. Be protective of his weaknesses, his shortcomings, of his darkest moments. Keep them safe, hold them close to you and protect them. Keep him safe, hold him close to you and protect him.

Be ready. Of course be prepared, but also:
   Be ready to laugh. He is the funniest man I know. He uses humor to show those around him that he cares. He uses humor to show those around him that he’s okay. He wields humor like a knight wields a sword to protect himself and others. Be ready to laugh, but be ready to see through his humor.      
     Be ready to adventure. He needs adventure. He needs little adventures throughout the days and months in trying new things and going new places. He needs big adventures to draw him out of his comfort zone, to take him to new cuisines and maybe new countries.
     Be ready to love. You will fall in love with him and his ocher eyes and calloused hands and strong shoulders. You need to be ready, because whether that love happens all at once like summer storm-clouds pour rain on cornfields or whether it grows slowly from a seedling to a honeysuckle vine twining through your heart and squeezing it, you will fall in love with him and you must be ready.
     Be ready to wake up early. He is a morning person and he wants someone to fix him/help him fix/help him pick breakfast. He is a morning person that wants to roll around in the sheets and play with your hair and skim his hand up and down your arm while you’re half awake. He is a morning person who wants to listen to music to start his day even though he almost never sings in the shower. He is a morning person by necessity who has come to love it by nature; try to get up and see sunrises with him, try to get up and share the breakfast table with him, try to get up and see him first thing in the morning with sleep in the corner of his eyes and a deep rumble in his chest.
     Be ready to listen. He has so many stories in his mind, in his eyes, and on his tongue that need to be told. From the stories of his day, the jokes of his coworkers, the songs he loves, the recipes he watches, the feelings he shares, the games he loves, right down to the things he doesn’t say aloud...he needs someone ready to listen.

Be steadfast.
     He needs commitment. He needs a white picket fence and a dog and two or three children. He needs someone to always hold his hand and stand by his side. He needs someone unafraid of his darkness. He needs someone steadfast, brave, loyal, etc. He needs someone to call his home. He needs someone who will look a storm in the eye, adjust her sails, and drop her anchors where she stands.

Be good.
     Actually, be better than good. Be better than great. He only deserves the best this world has to offer. Too often he is Atlas carrying his pain, others expectations, his past, his deep desires, and the world on his shoulders. He deserves the best to stand beside him and remind him he doesn’t have to be alone. He deserves the best of women to hold him through his lows and soar with him on his highs. Be yourself, but be the best version you can be. Because he deserves only the best this world can give him.

"In our culture people tend to over-personalize"

I don't understand that statement, Professor.
In fact, I think it's a paradox;
I think our culture tends to under-personalize.
Women are just **** and men are just dollar signs.
We make generalizations to degrade those around us, whether the generalizations are true or not.

Our culture supports independence
and opinions and freedom,
yet we label everyone with their own box
of stereotypes: gender, race, ****** preference,
appearance, religion, and intelligence.

Our culture de-personalizes individuals:
While us youngsters sit and exploit our lack of work ethic,
demoralize ourselves, smoke our cigarettes,
and play with technology,
laying waste to our mental health.

Our culture promotes individuality:
While the children of this era,
the poor, blessed children
are spoiled rotten,
and pitied for the mess they will have to clean up
when the young
adults of today become
the dead of tomorrow.

I want you so bad I can feel my heart shudder and jump in my chest whenever we stand close together. I can still feel the burn on my lips and your tongue on my teeth, but I wonder if it’s already out of your mind, forgotten. People do that to me all the time. Forget me, leave me, and I drive them away. I’ve never figured out what I’ve done exactly, it must be different for each person. Maybe for you, it’s because you see I’m unstable. You see I’m a desperate little girl and you don’t have time for that.
Maybe it’s because you don’t want to save me and I’ll always need saving from sleepless nights and crying binges and the streaks of red I’ve put on my flesh.
Maybe it’s because I’m not good enough for you; the newness has worn off enough for you to realize that I’m not pretty enough, or old enough, or calm enough, or good enough. I’m never good enough. 

But I want you so bad that I would do anything to be good enough for you. I’d starve myself, I’d dye my hair and buy new clothes, I’d stop drinking tea, I’d stop reading thick books, I’d stop worrying and get rid of my wrinkles, I’d start sleeping and get rid of my sleep bruises, I’d change every single detail about myself…

If it meant you would want me too.

I wish I could say something beautiful.
But all of the words I dance with keep stepping on my toes,
like the boy I danced with in 8th grade that told me
he was surprised by how graceful I was for my size.

I've always carried other people's grief and anger around in my extra pounds,
storing their feelings like I was preparing for winter
and I've never been graceful about it.

I fall and I stumble and I slip but at least I didn't step on Brandon's feet when I was so nervous about my first kiss following the Sadie Hawkins dance.

I wish I could say something beautiful,
but all of the metaphors I try to grow never bloom.
Because I overwater them the way I overwater all of the loved ones in my garden and all of the wildflowers in my lungs.

I've been told my thumb is black, and not green, because I never know when to stop piling fertilizer upon seeds that will never sprout,
and when to stop piling unreciprocated love upon the people that I care about.

I wish I could say something beautiful.
But my voice is always silent like lightning or booming like thunder
and I've never learned how to make it fill a room like the sound of rain,
without being a natural disaster.

I wish I could say something beautiful.
But I still have a hard time looking into a mirror without picking myself apart,
like diagramming myself for autopsy before I've ever even pulled the trigger.

How could I ever produce something beautiful, when I can't understand the work of art that I am?

How could I say something beautiful, when I stand in my hallowed exhibition hall and refuse to paint my walls because I'm so afraid of making mistakes?

How could I say something beautiful, when I'm afraid to frame my best qualities because what if other people think that they're overrated? Overrated like seeing the Mona Lisa in person and still not understanding what the **** she's smiling about.

How could I say something beautiful when I've never been able to appreciate the different hues and shadows and brush strokes that fill my skin and my mind and my mouth?
I've never been able to appraise and value myself because I'm afraid I'll never sell and never find a home.

How could I say or create or become something beautiful when I'm so preoccupied with imitating others' paintings instead of allowing myself to be my own masterpiece?

I wish I could say something beautiful, but maybe the most beautiful thing I could say in this moment is that beauty is in the eye of the beholder,

and kid you gotta be beholden to yourself instead of those critics in your art gallery.

"You can be whatever you want to be," he says.
Isn't he so ******* inspirational?
Something straight out of a storybook meant for a hopeful, innocent, naive child.
I've always thought that this statement was relevant, because we humans as a rule usually do whatever we want to do.
We follow our guts, our desires, our cravings, our wants.
I've always tried to employ this rule, just because my mommy once told me to be whatever I wanted to be.
But someday quite sometime ago, I learned that you can't get everything you want.
One cannot be president, an astronaut, or beautiful, or smart just by "wanting" it.
You could eventually, theoretically get what you wanted through hard work or finagling or knowing the right people or maybe by just being lucky.
But realistically we don't always get what we want, which means we can't be whatever we want to be.
I've always tried to think that I want to be skinny and pretty, so I'm going to work out and I'm not going to eat and because I want it, it will happen.
I've always tried to think that I want to be happy, so I'm going to make friends and hide my awkward sadness and smile frequently and because I want to be happy, it will happen.
I've always tried to think that I want considerate people to surround myself with, so I'm going to treat others how I want to be treated and I'm going to bend over backwards to show others I care and because I want to feel important to others, it will happen.
I've always tried to think that I could have any career I want, so I'm going to follow "what makes me happy" and try to find a job in a barren career field and because I want to be a happy adult (if such a thing exists), it will happen.
There are so many things I desperately want myself to be.
Compassionate, smart, attractive, intelligent, loving, witty, beautiful, fit, skinny, talented, well put together, and I could list thousands more.
But there are so many aspects of myself that I don't want that I will never be able to get rid of.
So while I think that wanting to be something is relevant to how much you want it, because as a rule humans do whatever we want, I think there are certain things you cannot change just by wanting them.
So Mister Inspirational, take a step back from your whiskey bottle, your larger than life aspirations, and let reality slap you in the face.