Every day is magnanimous in its own way. Some days I drive hours to arrive at a destination; when I do I…breathe… deeply and feel proud of the trek and the productivity that I pushed myself into. The road takes me in loops at dangerously high speeds, yet it’s not actually so bad. For some time I don’t have to think, the only gears moving are the car’s. I breathe and sometimes I hold on tightly to the wheel for I am still a fairly new driver. Along the same veign I realize that I no longer feign to make it like I used to. I make it to my destination now and yes, at times I still get lost or nervous and even a little scared–but damn it, I MAKE it. Someday I exude my best self and others not so much, but still I attempt to pry the doors of my mind open as I try to find more ways to process solutions. Yet every day I am still tired. I am tired of my thoughts in the form of sad poems reminiscing on cycles of misconduct or duress from life. I am tired of moving whether or not it’s with my feet, my hands, or my head. I like to lay in bed at night and listen to soft voices that meditate me into alternative realities that become truth and invigorate my soul even though I am physically and mentally tired. I am at least, spiritually full. Don’t get me wrong, I am glad I am tired. I have purpose and like the car on new roads, I am driven.