Football shaped hole

Survivor

Fascinated about

How airplanes are made.

We keep the peace.

Excellence is human flourishing. Am I sad or afraid? I am the passionate few. Waiting for my man. We’re shown the way via experience, via “the path”, taking multiple hands, kneeling a couple of times. Does everyone know the difference between genetics and learned behavior?
We are all different, too. My brothers and sisters were all raised the same as me, too.

Collecting my thoughts as everyone talks. I need to tell Naji when I get out of class that I wrote it all down, that I figured it out, and that’s why I couldn’t put it into words. → these are all excellent people. A drop of wet grease from the scaffolding.
High society and the upper echelon. The contingent circumstances of girlhood and football.

“People are negative, way too much, to themselves, for no good reason.”

I feel like I’m dreaming.

Even my dreams aren’t that real. Or scary. Hubris. I've convinced myself that I'm already excellent. A terrific gaping hole in my chest, like a nightmare I had once. My mom’s mom. She lay in bed, her face looked uncomfortable.

Not horrified

Not pleading

Not dead

A bleeding, wet, empty, cannonball-shaped hole in her chest. See through.

Let me please imagine a goalpost.

I kick the ball.

I kick the ball SO hard and well. It flies through and keeps soaring to the deeper ends of power and wisdom. It leaves a pointy, football-shaped hole through the window of my school, through the desolate air in the classroom, around the corner past the lockers in the hallway, and into the center of my coach’s chest. And all around the field, it is silent, with no applause. No one to witness.

A friend of sofia, which means wisdom, her name is phronesis which means prudence and practical intelligence. Use this, survivor. Yet I find myself immersed in the myth of sameness, undefeated in the battle survivor survivor survived.

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