My patience is wearing thin,
As is my confidence.
But what to confide?
A fear, an insecurity. A wish.

To confide one's self to another,
To be seen wholly,
Faults and follies
Amidst one's triumphs.

If confidence reigned supreme,
I'd surely fail among the floundering.
Patience, though a virtue,
Does not come quick.

To be patient or confident,
Neither becomes me.
I walk the shadows,
My head bent in social submission.

Success, by definition, is a favorable or desired outcome. To succeed is to accomplish something, to achieve something. To make ones self worthwhile.



I am quite successful in the fine art of failure.



At an age where most of my peers have degrees, jobs, and families, it goes without saying they have long since left the nest. I, however, am living at home. With my mother. I have a minimum-wage part-time job I dislike, I dropped out of college my junior year, and I have a dog whom on most occasions is my closest friend.



I would chew off my own arm to go back in time. I laugh it off, play it off, calling myself, "a professional drop-out," and making empty promises to go back when "I know what I want to do with my life."



I am not a risk taker.

I want to lie on our backs and stare at the infinite beyond, watching stars glitter and planets shine. I want to feel the grass at my toes, your arm beneath my head; the heat from your body in contrast to the night air. We'd follow sattelites and airplanes, try to guess where they're both going.

What's in a rainbow? Of course, we all know the basic science of light and water vapor, and what happens when the two combine in ideal circumstances. But what do people see when they look in rainbows? Bands of color, streaking across the sky in every hue? Songs from Kansas, OZ, and Jim Henson? Wishes, promises, dreams, memories?

I see a little girl. She can't be older than six, in a striped-print sundress and pink plastic sandals. Her hair is the tangled remains of the morning's spiral curls, tousled and disheveled from wind and play. She is skipping along an evening parking lot, the summer light giving way to the bright iridescence of moonlight. Even the breeze is warm, without a cloud or a raindrop in sight. She is not alone.

Holding her hand is a man like none other. Decades older, in jeans with holes in the pockets, and shoes he refuses to throw away no matter how badly the water seeps through when it rains. His wallet is a thick bulge in his pocket, full not with money, but loaded down with mementos and pictures of his family. A mustache that tickles when he kisses her goodnight rests on his upper lip. A denim Hard Rock Cafe jacket seems ridiculous in the warm summer air, but the theatre may be cold, and he has his daughter to keep in mind.

They are singing. Or, truthfully, he is singing to her. A song reserved for bedtimes or the occasional off-hand moment when it just fits, like her small hand in his. A song about rainbows and diamonds, stars and the moon. The little girl is smiling, excited to be out in the glorious night, tugging impatiently on her father's hand. Her eyes are cast upward, at the glittering diamonds he is singing about.

What movie they were going to see I cannot recall. But in that moment, the world made sense. She was safe, happy, and loved. She was not alone, confused, angry, hurt or sad. She was a little girl, happily listening to her daddy sing her a song.

I wish I were a faerie. Powerful, mischevious, full of endless light, complete with shimmering wings and a bright glittering aura. Faeries have been viewed in so many different lights, the possibilities are quite endless- from J.M. Barrie's speechless flickering light, to Amy Brown's elegant fae, even the powerful lost elven relations. Faeries have inspired histories, music, stories, and I'm sure, countless hours of make-believe.

To truly be a faerie, to be able to create, to be the force behind colors and rain, lightning, snow, and wind. To be beautiful and graceful, faeries never seem to trip or stumble. Not a pint-sized faerie, I'd wish to be quite the same size as regular people, however, it may be nice to live in a city carved of tree limbs and vines, every surface etched in inteiracte design, everything giving off a faint glow at night, as if brushed with thousands of tiny stars.

And what to do with a life made of pure energy? The obvious battle between good and evil, I'm sure I'd find a balance of doing good and causing trouble. I think I'd enjoy the ability to break from the realities I face today. Maybe I'd have a tea-party on the bottom of the ocean, or create a sunny escape of an island paradise when I push back my shower curtain. Literally - the possibilities would be endless.