"I go now for the millionth time to forge within the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race." -Stephen Dedalus, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

How fitting.

This summer has been lush with recovery, spotted with the occasional failure, and flourished upon with joyous rediscovery of the smithy of my very soul. I should not say that I have triumphed, for that shall bring resolution to my life; I am seeking re-creation, the resolution different from all others in that it is an extraordinary rebirth.

Let me paint a picture of my summer, essentially an expanded form of being my brother's designated driver. (Especially significant given that I was given responsibility of healthcare for a future doctor and a man who has always seemed to outstrip my achievements; a triumph over insecurity?)

Each night I made my foray into the dark corners of the urban sprawl on the horizon where my brother and others drank and reveled in the shadows of skyscrapers and other great things drawing closer, I knew my own importance as the vital ingredient to the night's conclusion. I drove wildly and with great abandon on slick roads animated second by second with the roar of the car engine and the gutsy rhythms of my music. It was the perfect amalgamation of responsibility and recklessness that I wished the summer to represent, and I knew this better than anyone as I leaned out the car window at red lights and watched the locus trees tremble with the breeze amidst street lamps that lit the roads in beautiful, wordless sequence so as to beckon me forward on my journey.

My journey is my conscience, and my steps are made without trepidation. Amaste, world.