Well tomorrow is friday. I worked on my project for a good little chunk today. Now hopefully I can finish it and get it turned in by four tomorrow. I think I can do it, but I'm going to be getting up around 9 just in case. That gives me 7 hours or so of work time.
Fencing downright sucked tonight. They were having a tournament so that the people that didn't go to one were able to compete and so I had to sit there the entire time judging. I didn't get to fence at all. I didn't know it was going to be like that. I only stayed cuz they needed me to judge. I much rather have actually gone to one of the ballroom lessons. I haven't had a ballroom lesson in forever and it's showing. I'm getting to the point of being boring to dance with at Madonna cuz I repeat the same things all the time. Ugh.
On another note, I have a working version of Red Hat 8.0. It's working fairly well thus far. I have NTFS read support, but I can't get my wireless to work. So we'll see, when I have time I can work on that.
I'm feeling like being creative tonight. I wouldn't reccomend reading it though. It's rather uninteresting.
The Shattered Glass
To hold sand is an impossible thing, but to watch how elegantly and fluidly the grains fall between your fingers is something to marvel at. When you first pick it up you see a small mound that slowly has crevices form in it, uniform rifts in the once flawless mountain. Yet they add another degree of beauty, until the rift becomes too great and a side of the landscape slides chaotically down. Even through the chaos the uniformity can be seen, until at last a flat surface rests in your hands. No more drifting away, but settling into serenity.
I am the sand, but who is holding me? My lofty desires are that of the small mound that is being eaten away. Sometimes purposefully, with grace and ease, and sometimes a choatic uproar shaking and changing my very foundation. Someday the flat surface will come, I will no longer have the unattainable aspirations and dreams that cause the slides. Content at where I am the hand will drop me. Nothing more than pieces, the makings of shattered glass.