No matter how old I get, I fear, I will always be that young nervous wreck: awkward pauses, stumbling half thoughts, quarter of a smile, some would say just a grin. My two left feet are prone to missteps, especially around a pretty lady, particularly around that pretty lady.
But wait, what would life be without motivation? Because it seems these things provide the grist for action, get my heart pumping, provide answers when all else seems meaningless, and yet, at others times just the opposite, make me nearsighted and petty. I think, but it's hard to know, I ponder these things because there are two sides to every heart and they, consistently at war, say all sorts of things to get what they want.
