being this age always seemed so far away

i can be afraid of taking the medicine that is supposed to make me feel less afraid
i can be afraid of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time to absolutely anyone
i can be afraid of being less successful than my parents
i can be afraid of being more successful than i deserve
i can be afraid of getting older
i can be afraid of what line to stand in at the dmv because the new one they built years ago still doesn't really have any demarcation for which station is which
i can be afraid of touching the side of the lawn mower again where the metal is after running it for an hour and a half years ago and accidentally doing so when i went to prime it after it stalled and feeling like the entire end of my finger was on fire
i can be afraid of the feeling of burning my thumb when i use a lighter on a windy day like i have before; i just got the goosebumps again
i can be afraid of shots and blood draws and spinal taps
i can be afraid of toxoplasma gondii
i can be afraid of people on facebook i used to know from school finding out about me or seeing my posts or my pictures
i can be afraid about removing said people from facebook and seeing my miniscule friend count suffer
i can be afraid of my future
i can be afraid of giving up on my dreams because they're untenable but that not giving up on them and failing is even more frightening
i can be afraid of forgetting to shave that little patch of hair where my neck curves inward above my chest and how it gets red when i use a trimmer
i can be afraid of going shirtless
i can be afraid of wearing shorts
i can be afraid of hurting myself
i can be afraid of going into a new store for the first time alone and not knowing where anything is so instead I don't and just continue to buy stuff online
i can be afraid of people on the phone so i raise the pitch of my voice and make myself sound very timid and sometimes people call me a woman and whatever it takes to make myself seem non-threatening
i can be afraid of failure
i can be afraid of hospitals
i can be afraid of staining my pillowcase with wet hair so i put a towel down over my pillow if i lie down after a shower
i can be afraid of not seeming like i care enough or emote enough
i can be afraid of being angry
i can be afraid of accidentally putting something that isn't mine away in the wrong cabinet
i can be afraid of letting down everyone i know
i can be afraid of black ice and spinning out of control on it and slamming into another car
i can be afraid of using public restrooms
i can be afraid of being too early
i can be afraid of being late
i can be afraid of walking through a restaurant looking for the person i am supposed to meet there and then realizing they're not there and now i look like an idiot
i can be afraid of getting my hands and face all sticky and getting up from the dinner table to fix it mid meal because it makes me so uncomfortable
i can be afraid of being ugly
i can be afraid of feeling trapped at work or school or anywhere
i can be afraid of anything

distance

there are fireworks in the distance as you coast along a highway just south of the ohio and michigan border, grandiose lights and colors off to the north, but not too far, you think maybe perusing your phone you could find the town, the occasion. you remember as a kid on late night highway drives home from chicago or detroit wanting to know what each and every overpass lead to, the lights in the distance of cities and towns and countless stories of people existing in them completely unaware of the camry or mitsubishi you were in barreling down the highway. now you're obsessed with finding these fireworks, who, what, where, but google tells you nothing and at 80 miles per hour you're quickly beyond them and unable to assume they're due north of your location on the map. it's not a holiday and you assume county fair or something but in these northern ohio or southern michigan counties west and beyond detroit and toledo nobody really lives. maybe this was always the writer in you, seeing cars go by and wondering the driver's story, seeing these towns light up all miniaturized when above them in a plane, passing over countless decadent rejections of night time darkness, light pollution blaring louder than the sound of plane engines separated from your chair by just a small wall and window. maybe that's why sitting in an airport and having a drink or coffee and just observing was comforting. you'd imagine stories and be curious and observe and as a teen you used to say you liked the idea of people more than people themselves and maybe part of that is still true but then you meet someone wonderful and you think to yourself "gosh isn't that cynical." it's ok though because all the stories are gone. the blog you write in had the fewest visits in years, 5-10% of the traffic it used to get because you no longer put out 6, 7, 8 entries a month, you're now on... you can't even remember. 1.5 years? 2 years? 3 years? since you finished a short story. the other day you had an idea for a story and a blog post based on all these people, all these lights, all these nights and hushed confessions and observations but it was late and the idea was fleeting, just like the fireworks were, as the car motored down the highway, answer to your curiosity lost in the distance behind you, just another slowly unobservable object in a mirror closer than it appears.

spice

It's been said that "variety is the spice of life" by a variety of people in a nearly endless enumeration of various walks of life. Indeed, similar sentiments can be found divulged in languages and cultures all over the world.

This is, of course, considered very different from spice used in regards to food. Spicy food is a source of pleasure for many, but also a source of heartburn and intestinal issues that render said consumption folly.

In many ways, then, one might say both "the spice of life" and "spicy hell ramen in Chicago" are, actually, extremely similar. For to pursue the former - vis a vis variety - one must often confront intestinal discomfort brought on by anxiety and stress, such that may upset one's stomach, not unlike one who struggles with chili peppers or ghost peppers consuming copious amounts of very spicy food. The end result, the present author supposes, is the same for both forms of consumption; uncomfortable trips to the bathroom and internal questioning of whether this or anything else is, indeed, worth it.

matter of time

every mistake ever made is yours and it's ok because you're used to it right? you messed up the other day and the other day before that and you will again. will it be today? tomorrow? the weekend? who knows. you know because it's all you know and you expect and it will be your fault because it is, and you hope others will forgive you because you won't forgive yourself. each source of discomfort in any arena; social, work, academic, is your fuckup and your fuckup alone and one day you want to be perfect but perfect always takes so long, because it doesn't exist, and yet still you cower in fear of each mistake you will make, by saying or doing the wrong thing, not being enough, being too anxious, being too dumb, falling short of expectations. the next big mistake is a matter of time. you will be there to see it.

there are things here that you can walk on

we stumbled into a restaurant before hitting the beach in case things closed, stuffed into a simple and crowded bar with a neatly creative menu and the heat and humidity coming in through the single door and emanating off the grill behind the bar. we talked about all the things that looked good but kept it simple with drinks and pasta and an appetizer they were out of, making a mental note to come back for the mac and cheese or burgers or something. the rain came. we sat and looked, me over my shoulder, as trees whipped left to right as the gusts rolled in off the lake, rain pouring down, visibility rendered to almost nothing, people running for cover. after holding hands and laughing and smiling and food we walked. down the main street and towards and pier and then suddenly the skies opened up and it wasn't just rain it was hail, solid pebbles of ice enough to break skin and sting and burn, my towel over her neck a worthless gesture. the seam in the front of my right shoe where the soul has come undone spewing bubbles as the weight of every step pushed the water in the instep upwards and outwards through any crevasse it could find. in the shelter of a marina whose bathrooms smell and were soaked with water and urine we waited until the hail relented. the 92 degrees had given way to 75, and we held hands walking to the beach, walking on the wet sand and then realizing that might be more work than the warm sidewalk, avoiding the pebbles that would pick at our feet at every opportunity. at a picnic table she sang songs with the theme of water and we watched families and friends take group photos and even I sang albeit poorly. we eventually made our way in, 4 foot waves and red flag warning and all, the violent thrust of water pushing us back and side to side, bracing ourselves every time one approached. we laughed at how the water itself tried to strip us to our skin, the water was as warm as the great lake ever gets, we stood and jumped and splashed until my fingers became prunes. and somehow, the storms and hail and rain and wind managed to dissipate enough so that the clouds dispersed and the yellow and orange and red hues of the sunset blasted out forth on the late summer evening, turning everything the very shade of the nearest star. we walked back to the car smoking a cigarette and getting our lips sweet and the breeze tore at our hats and towels like it did earlier. the night drive was full of singing and endless fireflies illuminating the sides of the 2 lane highway almost as if natasha pulley had dreamed up the scenario herself, countless, reoccurring flares as far as the eye could see. in the distance the storms that had rolled through illuminated the sky with lightning that illuminated the clouds enough to make out their intimidating, ungainly shape. everything about life was perfect in that moment.