get right out of my bed.

teacher hands, maybe.
a heart that falls for museums and the lewis chessmen,
pathetically.

my mother, who cares a great deal for me, has asked on multiple occasions if teaching is what i reeeeally want to do for the rest of my life.
every day.
for the rest. of. my. life.
and i usually just shrug my shoulders, regurgitating words i've spit one hundred times... which i hate myself for.
something usually along the lines of, might as well.

her latest inquiry being when she turned to me as we reached an altitude of 10,000 feet, and were safe to use our approved electronic devices.
and i thought, but not so hard.
because most of my concentration had been forced to focus on the tears about to spill all over, and leak into the valley between my lips, something i wish my tears wouldn't do. 

i know the answer; i know you, she said, and you'd rather not look at pictures of pictures. 
  
and so it is:
no more teaching,
a little more learning,
a lot more passion,
and three hundred handfuls of faith.
...which feels an awful lot like running with scissors or playing wizard's chess.

so here's to not doing the sure thing.

"Everything will stop on a dime.
Everything will crash into itself in good time.
Do you want to beat your own heart, beat your own heart,
Or leave it behind?"

ingrid michaelson, do it now.