I am a pot of scrambled eggs. Hot, jumbled, Scrambled, what else? Stirred by a big wooden spoon in a hurry. "Go here! Do that! C'mon don't be late!" WAIT. Hold on a minute. Slow down. Let me breathe. Can't you see? This is not who I am. This is you. But if I am not you, Then who? Let me think. But I can't. My mind is jumbled, scrambled. Too much going on at once. Always in a rush. So I write. Black, liquid words, flowing one by one down easily from my mind, through my pen, to the lined page before me. I am released, I am free. I am back to myself, the girl I once knew. A girl who: Loves with all she has, a runner that can't stay cooped up, who falls down ALL THE TIME, but always gets back up. I reach deep within myself and pull these things out, examine, dust, polish, examine again. I cling tight to these pieces of me, the real me. Ding! The timer goes off. Reality checks back in. I put away my pen and go over what I am doing today, or rather, what I am not doing. Busy life resumes. And I am once again SCRAMBLED.


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