If I listen closely… just quiet the thoughts that can shamelessly slice up the best words I can use this day, there is a shallow laughing that bursts curiously into my chest. The compulsion to notice this, draw it close to a memory: I can barely breathe when I fling myself daringly high from an unsupervised swing . It has taught me this: a stubborn drum has fought for my attention since the first time I lost my breath on the playground, or unceremoniously crushed my glasses or passed judgement simply to feel that the reigns of my life are woven inexplicably through the tender, glassy veins of my arms, across the back, up the spine and into the needle sharp pins of perfection where breath comes in, then out. Give, receive, and please let the creative play of getting past this past lead to throwing open my arms so wide to my imagination that I do not wait for a chance to swing again; and being chic can be my survival; or being clear of self-doubt can explode these pockets of petty mischief that cloud the purpose: joy.