There were any number of times that I thought I wouldn’t be able to finish the Boston Marathon (my first). Monday was not one of those days.

It was a perfect day to run. I remember marveling several times during the day just how lovely it felt to be outside. To be running. To be a part of all this for the first time.

I was running for 4,000 kids at the Boys and Girls Clubs of Dorchester. I was also running for myself — to prove to myself that I could train that long and that hard, that I could run that long and that hard, that I could raise the money the Boys and Girls Clubs so desperately need. To prove it all was possible.

But I was running injured. Five weeks ago I was sidelined, for the second time, by shin splints, and had already faced down the very real possibility that my legs literally would not hold me for 26.2 miles. I didn’t know that I could finish, but I sure as hell was going to start.

And I did. Once I knew my legs would hold, I also knew I would — could — finish. And I felt so grateful. I was grateful to be running. Grateful to be so miraculously pain-free. Grateful to be with so many people running for others. I remember tearing up in the starting corral looking at the messages and names written and sewn on to the backs of so many runners in front of me. Names in marker, on ribbons, taped on — people carrying their inspiration with them, literally, on their backs.

We were only stopped for a few minutes, before the crowd of runners surged forward. One step, two steps, legs holding, moving forward. The crowd dropped down and to the right, and then there I was, crossing the start. I was slow — very slow — still testing my shins, still finding the gait and foot strike that would keep my shins from barking. And just like that, there was the Mile 1 marker, and with it my husband and running partner. He was meeting me there to join me for the rest of the race, entering the course as a “bandit” and sticking with me stride-for-stride. I remember clapping my hands together in excitement when I saw him. Excited to have made it a mile in what felt like no time, excited that our plan to meet worked, excited that he hadn’t been stopped. Excited to know that, whatever the race brought, we’d face it together.

And so we ran. Slow and steady, each of us tending to injuries that half a year of training had wrought. For him, a tender calf, knee, and back. For me, my shins and left heel. But no matter how fast, 90 steps a minute, a beat kept relentlessly by the music in our ears. Everlasting Light. Bad Moon Rising. 16 Military Wives.

We had such fun on the course. We’d start dancing to the music we were listening too, calling out lyrics so that the other would know what we were hearing. Singing the songs Tom had obligated himself to sing as part of fundraising. High-fiving all the kids who had their hands outstretched, hoping runners would brush their hands as we ran by.

I remember being too far away from one little boy to get his hand, as I passed by I heard him say aloud, “Anyone?” And so I stopped, turned around and ran back, gave him a high-five, and thanked him for being there.

I remember seeing the signs as we moved from Hopkinton to Ashland. Then Framingham. Natick. I remember crossing the rubber bumps at the 10K mark that I knew would finally send an alert to those tracking us that we’d made it that far. I also knew that was the sign that Tom and I could open up our run a bit, as we’d successfully managed the first 6 miles conservatively, which meant we’d have a lot left in the tank when we needed it on the hills of Wellesley and Newton.

Mile 10: Look left, my coworker Brian said. Red house. And there he was, grilling in his front yard. Bear hug at the ready.

And on we ran. Time flew, it really did. We hit the half-marathon mark feeling strong, and relatively pain-free. We knew we were running slow — easily 2 minutes a mile off our uninjured pace. But we also felt like we had a ton of energy left. Plenty to make it the rest of the way. It was easy. It hurt like hell, but it was easy. “Run easy, run easy,” rang the mantra in my head.

We were slow enough that the water stops began to be staffed with fewer and fewer people. Volunteers that had been handing out cups were now using rakes and snow shovels to clear the streets. We were at the back of the race, but still running. Still doing it.

Mile 15: our coach, mentor, and guiding light, Rick Muhr, reminding us that once we hit the Newton firehouse, we were in single digits the rest of the way. Mile 15.5: my parents and cousin, waiting with teary eyes and pain-relief spray
Mile 17: the firehouse. Single digits left to go. Just past, kids from the Boys and Girls clubs cheering on “their” runners.
Mile 18: home turf, the route Tom and I had run week after week with the Marathon Coalition. The mid-century modern house on the left. Country club on the right. Hills we’d run over and over again to remove their sting, their power. We crossed the rubber bumpers at the 30K mark. One more alert out to our trackers.

At 2:55 pm. Five minutes after the bombs went off.

The motorcycle cops started driving the course around then. I remember thinking it was odd, because there was no warning, they were just suddenly on the course, but it was my first marathon, we were clearly the tail end of runners, and I figured it was part of them getting ready to reopen the streets. Though, even then, I was thinking that we weren’t that far behind, and that they didn’t close the course until six hours after the last official runner started. We’d be on the line, but we’d make it, I thought.

We were almost at Heartbreak. We hurt, but we had plenty of energy. Just crest the hill, and it would all, literally, be down hill from there. Down into Cleveland Circle, past the supermarket, Washington Square, Coolidge Corner to see Chel (and Case, FaceTimed in from Maryland) and Trish, Brookline Holiday Inn on the left (three miles to go from there), Audobon Circle, the windy bridge over the Pike, past the Hotel Buckminster and the shadow of the Citgo sign, one mile left, past the Braemore, under the Storrow underpass, jog to the left to go under Mass. Ave., then in a series of turns I’d run dozens of times by now, Right on Hereford, Left on Boylston. Hynes Convention Center. Apple Store. Mandarin Oriental. Lord & Taylor. The Lenox. Marathon Sports. FINISH.

Get to the top of this hill, I knew, and we were home free.

But somewhere between Mile 19 and 20, Tom cut in front of me, saying, “We have to stop, we have to stop. Something’s going on.” Tom said he’d looked up and suddenly there weren’t any runners in front of us. That was wrong. We’d had runners in front of us all day. He took out his earphones and kept hearing “bomb bomb bomb bomb” all around him, as word spread from fans and volunteers to us on the course.

We were both running with our phones with us, and on, in case we weren’t able to meet up at Mile 1. Phones out, phones on…and all the messages asking if we were okay. Race officials telling us to get out of the road and onto the carriage path where’d we’d trained for weeks. The carriage road was for training. The road road was for racing. Something was definitely wrong.

We walked and ran to the corner of Comm. Ave. and Centre Street, Mile 20, the base of Heartbreak. Two friends there to meet us. But I’ll remember their faces forever. That’s when it was first real. Almost. “Have you heard?” they said. “Yes.” The father of my sons was the first call through, his voice like I’ve never heard it. Fear. Relief. “I’m okay. We’re okay. We’re six miles out.”

It’s amazing how much we knew, and how quickly. We knew there were bombs. We heard car bombs at first. But we knew they were at the finish. We knew they were in front of Marathon Sports, where we’d been Saturday picking up last-minute gear for the run. Where I’d bought every pair of shoes I’d worn in training. The place with its windows blown out now. Destruction out front. There were a million thoughts in my head at once:

Were my boys there to surprise me at the finish? No? Thank god.
Where were my parents, who were supposed to be eating lunch at L’Espalier, almost directly across the street from where the second bomb went off? Lunch cancelled because we were so off-pace.

The information was jumbled, too. At first volunteers told us to keep running, that they’d reroute us to a different finish. But fewer than five minutes later, we were stopped for the final time, “We Are Young” on my iPod. They diverted us to the next aid station, and told us they were stopping the race. It was bad on Boylston.

“I don’t understand.” I kept saying. I must have said that a hundred times. “Why would they do that? Why would they bomb the marathon? Who would do that? I don’t understand.”

And the worst part: just about the only people crossing the finish line four hours in are the charity runners, and the older qualifiers. The people in my corral at the start of the race. People I saw, and started with. Tsugumi, a colleague of my ex-husband’s, running for Children’s Hospital, hoping to qualify for her next Boston. Pam, the 52-year-old qualifier who sat next to me on the bus to Hopkinton, who didn’t want to know about the course, as not knowing made the miles fly quicker.

Tsugumi crossed 10 minutes before the bombs, missing her qualifying time by under a minute. I don’t know what happened to Pam.

So we stopped at the aid station. We took the mylar blankets we would have gotten at the finish line, but six miles too early. I sat on the curb and cried.

I remember the flow of cars that started steadily coming down the carriage road. People fleeing the city in a steady, gruesome stream, passing just past my toes.

Not moving was driving me crazy. We were caught halfway up Heartbreak Hill, my GPS watch stopped — now, for good — at 20.45 miles. I wanted to walk home, but knew it was best to stay off the road. We headed back down the hill, back down to Devon and Sam who had met us at Centre Street, hoping they could get us home, or at least take us in if the city were locked down. But we were turned away again because of suspicious package in the intersection.

More reports: More devices found. Stay away from trash cans. Marathon cancelled. City locked down. Cell service off to prevent more detonations.

We turned off Comm. Ave., and started to walk parallel to it, trying to get back to Devon and Sam. A white van pulled up — a medical van for the Marathon — picking up the dispersed runners, getting us warm, handing us water, Gatorade, Stella d’Oro Breakfast Treats cookies. Chips.

Manna.

After a stop to consolidate the refugees, we got on a schoolbus that took us to the Newton War Memorial, which we’d passed earlier on our run. We checked in as we entered. Name. Address. Telephone number. They gave us more water. Answered what questions they could. Someone passed around oatmeal raisin cookies. We called my cousin who had seen us at Glen Road, who came to pick us up and drive us home. We signed out like we signed in. Name. Bib number.

We found my parents at their hotel, just a half block from our apartment. We ran into a finisher in the elevator, medal around her neck, cleaned up and dressed for an evening of celebration.

“Did you finish?” She asked us.
“No.”
“I’m so sorry.”

We ate dinner at the hotel restaurant, still in our running clothes. Still in shock. Still not processing what had happened, but operating as if we had. Eating a meal that should have been a celebration, but felt more like a wake. Wine and martinis as recovery drinks. Hamburger. Shrimp with risotto. Home. Bed. Sleep.

We went to pick up my abandoned bag the next morning. Testing our abused bodies slowly. Shins okay. Back stiff. Hips on fire. But alive. Moving. Grateful.

We walked in the sun in the chilly air, even walking the long way around the Four Seasons to St. James Street to feel the warmth. I remember passing other runners with their reclaimed yellow bags in their arms, across their backs. A different kind of solidarity than in the days before. We were the ones that didn’t finish — couldn’t finish. Our bags left on lonely buses beyond the Finish Line that was now a crime scene.

As I walked up, I saw the volunteers hand someone their bag…and a finisher’s medal. And I started to cry again. The volunteer put it around the runner’s neck. “Congratulations.”

I got my bag, and our medal. I saw a photographer trying to get a shot. I turned away, and put the medal in my pocket.

I didn’t finish. We didn’t finish. The medal feels like it’s not really mine. I didn’t do what I pledged to do for 4,000 kids. I said I would do a thing and I haven’t done it.

The rational part of my brain tells me it’s like a rain-shortened baseball game. The winner is still the winner, even if they only played six innings. I can tell myself that this marathon, like those games, wasn’t based on distance, it was based on time. The time was up, and we ran as far as we could in the time we had. And I guess that’s what I’m left with: we all, every one of us, can only run as far and as well as we can in the time we have. Every step is precious. Every minute is. Every breath.

But I’m still struggling with the fact that none of this is over. We don’t know what happened. Or why. That marathon isn’t over. My marathon isn’t over. The reason I ran — those 4,000 kids — is still there. They need us, me, more than ever. They need to believe in possibility. And I haven’t shown it to them yet.

For those hurt and maimed at the finish line, and those who loved them, their marathon is only beginning. And it must be so, so hard to see possibility in any of this.

But I do. I will.

I. Will. Run.

I will run those last six miles, and I will run the whole damn thing again. Because that’s what I said I’d do. I said I’d show the power of possibility. And this is what’s possible:

It’s possible to never run at all two years ago and then run the Boston Freakin’ Marathon.
It’s possible to get hurt. Twice. So bad you had to stop running entirely. Twice. And still run the Boston Marathon.
It’s possible to raise more money than you every thought you could.
It’s possible to run when you don’t think your legs will hold you up.
It’s possible to run without a number.
It’s possible to get halfway up Heartbreak Hill and know – know – that you can finish.
It’s possible to be told you have to stop and know – know — that you will still finish it. Someday.
It’s possible to have your beloved city brought to its knees…and get right back up, swinging.
It’s possible to be lifted up by those around you, to let them be your strength for a little while.
It’s possible to be 39 years old and still so glad to see your Mom and Dad after the end of a really, really hard day, and to feel solace like no other in their tears and hugs.
It’s possible to be strong for your sons who don’t know you didn’t finish, and are just glad to find your name on a poster, and who love you anyway, because you’re Mama, and you’re home.
It’s possible to find yourself part of a community of runners, when you didn’t think you were one.
It’s possible to be part of a community of friends, most of whom you haven’t met, who will follow you on your crazy quest, and worry about you when it’s cut short.
It’s possible to feel gratitude even in the darkest times.
It’s possible to train for 26 weeks. To run over 570 miles. To be just six miles short of the end. And know you’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

Because it’s possible.

That’s my marathon. And I’m still running it. We all are.

Lift others up. Bend with blows. Assume the best. Forgive the worst.

Ground.

Find firm footing. Make dreams real. Deliver on values. Plant more seeds.

Grow.

Build more roots. Expand the view. Relish the light. Rest when ready.

Image credit: glasseyesview

Then read on. If not, enjoy this.

I have a few rules that govern my life. I usually summarize them as “Be useful, be thoughtful, be passionate, be kind,” but there are any number of more specific lessons I’ve learned that serve me well day-to-day. Here’s one:

Only offer advice if asked.

Here’s why:

You aren’t an expert on someone else, they are. You may have opinions, views, thoughts, or ideas you think are just the right thing to help someone, and I’m sure they could be. Could.

But the thing about advice is that the “right” thing to help someone isn’t the right thing unless it’s right for that particular person at that particular time. Unless you’re their therapist or doctor (and maybe not even then), you cannot — cannot — be an expert in that.

To know you have to ask (“Are you asking for my advice?”), or be asked (“What do you think about…?”). So, ask.

See, timing is everything. If someone isn’t ready to hear something, they won’t, no matter how good your advice might be.

The only way to really know if they’re ready to hear it? When they ask. Not before. Is it possible that you may eventually break through? Of course. But the breaking through will still come as a shift that happens in them, not through the force of your push, nor the frequency of your message.

People change, then they hear.

But, you ask, what if they need to hear what you have to say?

Well, first, that’s your judgment. You’re delivering a “should” in advice’s clothing; you believe your opinion is stronger than their knowledge of themselves — that what you think you know is better than what they actually know – and that’s neither useful, nor kind.

Second, and perhaps more importantly, why do you need to tell them?

Think about that for a minute. Listen to every reason you tell yourself.

How many of those are really about…you? Of course you want to be useful, or helpful — we all do. But if they don’t want to hear it, if they won’t hear it, how useful are you really being? You’re likely wasting your time, and theirs, and adding to the natural defensiveness we all get when confronted with “You should…”

If you really can’t help yourself, the answer is still: ask.

In this case, though, it’s asking someone if the answer you think is right might be right for them (“Have you thought about…?” “What if you…?”"I had luck doing it this way, would that work for you, too?”). Then, at least, you’ve opened a dialogue. You’ve created an opportunity for someone to come to their own realization about what’s right — one based in their knowledge, but informed by yours.

So, what do you think?  Would that work for you?

Image: Han Shot First

You never think when something begins — a moment, a marriage, a life — that it will end. Not really. Why would you?

Beginnings are beautiful, hopeful, exciting. They’re about what we don’t know, not about the one thing we do: that it will, someday, somehow, end. Perhaps by choice, maybe by chance, most likely by the slow fade that faces us all.

Which is the hardest? I don’t know. I know, very well, that the endings we choose surely cut as deeply as the ones we don’t.

But what I also know? Despite how intense the pain of an ending might be, it’s never enough to not make the choice to start with.

There is, after all, value in every moment, a possibility of glory in every choice. That, to me, is always worth it.

But sometimes it’s just really damn hard. And that’s the only answer there is.

Image: http://www.flickr.com/photos/wondermonkey2k/

It oppresses you, controls you — and you give it power constantly:

Should.

Oh, how I hate that word. It’s insidious. It’s laden with judgment, yet seems so innocent. And therein lies the problem.

“I should have known better…”
“Well, you should really do this instead…”

It sounds helpful. It sounds like guidance. But really, it’s permission for inaction wrapped in a lack of belief. Left unchecked, it will drain you dry, cut you off at the knees, take your confidence, your drive, your desire — and give nothing in return.

And you do it to yourself all the time.

Every time you say it, every time you let it pass, every time you let it stand, you’re helping it do its dirty work. You’re giving your power to a despot.

Should is a judge. It’s someone else’s expectations. It says, “The way you are, what you’re doing, is wrong. I don’t agree — but I also don’t have the guts to really say so, nor the decency to keep my mouth shut.”

And when you say it, to yourself, you’re saying you’re wrong, that you somehow value someone else’s opinion above your own, that you don’t trust your own judgment.

But that’s not okay. That’s dangerous. Crippling, even.

Should is empty. “Should” is nothing more than the echo of a gap. A gap in expectations. A gap in what’s normal. A gap between what is and what could be.

Whenever you say “I should…,” or let someone say it to you, you’re acknowledging that gap — even if you don’t know it. The very act of saying “should” reveals it. But you’re also not taking action. And inherent in “should” is a judgment for that, too.

Should is lazy. It lets you off the hook, as if by simply acknowledging the gap the obligation to fill it is complete. But it’s not. The gap is still there, and now you think you don’t have to really do anything about it. Why? Because you’ve said, “You’re right, I should.”

But saying a thing is not doing the thing. Words are nothing without action. Demand a path. From others. Of yourself. Fulfill.

Should is cruel. Whenever you say “should,” you’re making an observation — and an unkind one: You’ve judged…and found something (and too often, yourself) wanting. The “should” tells you what someone else would do, but not what you want or need to do, at least not necessarily.

“Should” denies what you’d do. It denies you.

It doesn’t help, it doesn’t build. It only breaks you down.

Should is a coward. It’s a Trojan horse: “Should” is what someone else wants, but it acts like it’s what you want. And whenever you follow “should,” you’re living someone else’s life.

So, in any given situation, the question isn’t “What should I do?” No, the question is, “Whose life do I want to lead?”

I know the answer. So do you.

But anytime you accept the Tyranny of Should, you’re rejecting, devaluing the life you want and need.

Should is just a word. Which means you can defeat it:

Refuse to use it. Refuse to hear it.

When you stop using “should” you force yourself, and others, to say what you really mean. You force ownership of opinion — and action. ”I want to….” “I need to….” “I will….” “I think….”

And once you take that ownership, you’re on the path to closing the gap, to living your life. To taking back the power you always had.

So use it. And not because you “should.”

•

Image: Roadgoer

Let’s clear something up: authenticity is not something you choose to be.
Or not be. Authenticity is a state. Whatever you are, you are. Whether angel or asshole, you are authentically that.

So that’s not the problem.

No, when people want you to “be authentic,” they want you (or your business — it applies to both) to, as the definition of “authentic” suggests, accurately represent who you are.

They want you to be honest. To have integrity to whatever code it is you choose to follow.

But that’s where the judgment comes in. Because too often, when the exhortation to “be authentic” gets thrown about, it’s because people disagree, at heart, with your code. They don’t like your rules. They want to know more about you. Or less. They want you to think differently. Act differently.

In other words, they’re asking you to be different than you are — which is, paradoxically, the very opposite of authenticity.

The path to authenticity isn’t action. It’s acceptance. Of who you are, what you stand for, of what your beliefs and values are. It’s understanding that not everyone will like you — and being okay with that. It’s about standing firm.

It’s about being true — to yourself.

So know that. Be that. That’s authentic.

There’s an intimate connection between our thoughts, feelings, and actions. Changes in one lead to changes in another: thoughts create feelings, actions affect thought, feelings inspire action, and so on.

You can use that connection to your advantage, of course. But it can also lead you astray.

Our brains pump millions of thoughts into our heads. Constantly. And that creates a lot of noise. A lot of decisions to make.

Our hearts do it, too, with feelings. Some that last a moment. Some that last a lifetime.

It’s almost like the head and the heart play a game. They taunt us with an idea, a sensation, just to see if we’ll act… and how readily. Just to see if we’ll stop – look — before we take a leap.

And it’s so easy not to. So tempting to play their game.

But there are certain thoughts, certain feelings, that need to sit there for a while – without action. There are times when action isn’t the solution (at least, not right away). Where thinking doesn’t solve it (…at least, not right away).

Sometimes it’s the absence of thought, the absence of feeling, the absence of action that leads to the clarity we need. Sometimes we need to just be, to bear witness as thoughts slip in and out of our heads.

Sometimes we need to just feel, and be still.

Sometimes its the absence of perspective that finally creates it, that makes our perspective on all of it — our thoughts and feelings and the actions we want or need to take — much more clear.

Entering that kind of witness state is a powerful choice, and a difficult one. It’s there you watch… and wait. It’s there you see just how long an idea, a sensation, sticks around. It’s there you can test it. Disconfirm it. Play out all the possible scenarios – both logical and not. It’s there you suspend judgment. You weigh options. You find your truth.

It’s there you can watch other thoughts come in and out. Other feelings come in and out.

It’s there you can watch as, sometimes, a thought or a feeling, even after all of that, just doesn’t go away.

And then you act.

•

Image: tochis

One of the curious things about our brains is how conflicting thoughts, and conflicting feelings, can coexist. Sometimes peacefully, sometimes not.

How can two perceptions of ourselves be at odds with one another
…and yet both still be true?
How can the roles we play, and want to play, conflict
…and yet our dedication to each remain?
How can we want — need — to pursue one path
…and yet simultaneously want — and need — to follow another?

How is that possible? And what are we supposed to do? Can we resolve it?

Do we need to?

Lots of questions today. Not many answers.

Just the feeling that it’ll all work out just fine.

•

Image: TW Collins

Our heads are noisy places. Things we want to do. Things we want to remember. Things we don’t want to forget

People. Concepts. Memories. Everything’s competing for space, but our mental road is only so wide.

On that road is a constant interchange of ideas, of information, of experience — with our brains driving constantly to make sense of it all. We try, usually, to keep too much, which means we lose things. Things get backed up, and we miss a few exits.

And then added to the noise is worry about all the things we’ve lost.

Whatever you give attention to grows stronger. But when all you can hear is the noise from all that traffic in your head, it’s impossible to focus, move forward, fulfill. It’s impossible to focus on what you really want — need — to pay attention to.

In essence, focus comes from reducing all that background noise. It means moving from looking at everything all at once to one thing, completely, and with full attention. And to do that we have to get everything else off the road. Out of our heads.

So get it out. Talk it out. Write it out. Work it out. But get it off your mental highway long before you crash.

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Image: Johan_Leiden

Read this for me, will you?

This above all:
to thine own self be true,
and it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
–William Shakespeare, Hamlet

What does it mean?

A call to be your true, “authentic” self?
A realization that who you really are and the roles you play are sometimes (often) at odds?
A reminder that you’re only whoever you are in that moment?

Or maybe something more bittersweet: that you, alone, are all you have?

One of the most wonderful things about words — or any form of art, really — is that we find in them what we want to see. (Perhaps that’s what ultimately separates art from science, my other favorite topic, where what we want to see has no bearing at all.)

In Hamlet, those lines are spoken by a rather farcical character (Polonius) as the denouement to a list of idioms and truisms serving as advice. You’ve heard plenty of the other lines before, I’m sure (“Neither a borrower nor lender be,” “Give every man thine ear, but few thine voice,” etc.), but “to thine own self be true” tends to be the phrase people remember. And reinterpret.

We can’t know, really, what Shakespeare intended for us to hear. None of us were alive at the time. None of us were in his head. Plenty of scholars have debated its meaning — and plenty of folks have adopted it as a mantra or justification of behaviors, both good and bad.

But here’s what I see when I read it:

This above all:
to thine own self be truthful.

In other words: To yourself, be honest.

It’s easy to deceive. We all know that. But what we don’t realize is that, often, the easiest person to deceive is ourselves.

It’s particularly easy when everyone around us, loaded with judgment, is happy to tell you their version of right and wrong — as if that’s ever anything but contextual. If we’re not clear on who we are and what we stand for, it’s easy to deceive ourselves into thinking that a path, set and directed by others, is the “right” one for us. That we can’t do it, or we’re not worth it, or we don’t deserve it. That our own needs and wants are “rightly” subsumed to those of others. Or, more selfishly, theirs are subsumed to ours.

But I don’t see life as either / or. To me, it’s “Yes, and….”

Which means that understanding context, and particularly where we stand in the midst of that context, is all-important when working to quiet our unquiet minds.

And that’s why that phrase speaks to me: The only context that never changes is us. The only constant, as inconstant and ever-changing as we are, is us.

We are the only throughline in our lives.

And if we’re not honest with ourselves — about who we are, what we want, and why — then we’re incapable of finding the balance between all of that and the world around us, and everyone else whose lives touch ours. We’re incapable of knowing what drives the next step, or what drove us where we are in the first place.

We’re incapable of being true to anything, least of all ourselves.

No honesty, no information. No information, no knowledge. No knowledge, no power.

But maybe you see something different.

Tell me?

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Image credit: Dante Gabriel Rossetti, The First Madness of Ophelia, 1868