I Fell Off My Bike, and Ten Tips for Rage Monsters

I Fell Off My Bike

Today I fell off my bike,

And I couldn't help but like,

As I lay in a pitiful mound,

When my hands scrapped the ground.

The blood upon my palms,

Somehow the feeling calms

My life fill of the grid.

The scratches say I'm still a kid.

Amazing back-flip fails, 

Dirt in my finger nails,

Climbing a tree,

Arms covered in sap,

Crawling under the bed,

Where the monsters nap.

My knees still bruised and bloodied, 

As dented as my car,

I tried to leave behind the crayons,

But I never got very far.

Maybe one day 

I'll wake up and say 

I'm much to old for stupid play.

To bruise my knees,

To talk to the breeze,

Or scuffing my arms by climbing trees.

Then I'll be wise,

Despite my size.

Despite my longing to play on the swings,

Or go to the island of wild things.

But that day is not today,

Because a voice said something like,

"You should go outside and play!

You should ride your bike!"

Note to self (and my faithful readers):  I'm'a be honest, I'm probably never going to publish that post about my trip to Ecuador.  Apologies to those who wished to read it.

Also, have I mentioned that I'm a bit of a rage monster?  In the last few weeks, I found several things that helped calm me.
 Tip for calming rage monsters #1:  Listen to a hard core screamo song.

#2:  After completing tip #1, listen to a gentle, sad song that has meaning to you.
#3:  Climb a tree
#4:  Climb a tree in the rain
#5:  Repeat steps 1-2.
#6:  Splatter your entire arm with paint.
#7:  Splatter your friends entire arm with paint.

#8:  Take a long car ride
#9:  Learn to do a flamingo dance

#10:  Ride a bike.  (Preferably a bike that small enough where you can reach the pedals, and don't ride it down a rocky hill going 100 miles an hour, and don't hit the breaks suddenly.  Other then that, you should be good.)

I Am A Short Story Challenge

I just realized that I am a short story challenge.  You start with something random.  Odd.  That doesn't make much sense.  And it's not very long.  But the challenge is to make sense of it, in the short space you are given. 

A friend of mine once told me he wanted to be like Elrond from the Lord of the Rings.  He wanted to be a small part of other people's story's, someone who provides a safe place, someone you can call to for help.

I sat in an auditorium, watching graduates walk across the stage in their flowing blue gowns of wisdom, hug their parents, and pose for pictures while the dude behind them read aloud their accomplishments and goals. 
I found that the goal of every other girl was to be an actress.  I judged them, hard core. 
Psh!  That girl doesn't look like an actress.
UGH!  She looks like an actress!  I'm going to fail!!
She's too timid.
She's too stuck up. 
My mind is a nasty place. 

I want to write a play.  The story for this play has been consistently on my mind, the itch to write it has almost become unbearable.  There is a character in this script whom I invented purely because it was a character I would want to play.  I thought, "Wouldn't it be cool to invent a character just for me?"  Let's call her Tinker.
And now I'm terrified to write it.  What if I put so much time and energy into this script, and it never get's read?  Never performed?  What if I get attached to Tinker and then realize I can't play her?  What if I'm too old to play her by the time the script is perfected?  What if I do get this play to the stage, and they say I'm not good enough, and they give Tinker to someone else?
I don't want to write this play for fear of being disappointed.

A thought challenged me this morning.  What if I never fulfill my goals?  What if I never perform again, if my writing is never read, but instead I help someone else fulfill their goal?  Will I still have accomplished nothing?  Would all that time I spent studying art be worth it?  Yeah.  Yeah, it would be worth it.

I can't claim Tinker for myself.  But she's important.  And she needs to be written.  That's my job.  If God puts her on stage, he will provide the right person to play her.  He will provide all the right people.  But nothing will happen if I'm too prideful to even write.

"You are the hero of your own story," But maybe I'm not.  Maybe I'm the script writer.  The Piglet, the Mick Wazoski.  The Gandalf, or the Elrond.
Maybe my life is not an adventure novel, maybe it's more of a short story challenge.