<p>Setting: A long time ago … in the beginnings … of something great (yet ephemeral).</p>
<p>Secure and in her element, gracing the breezeway, there she was. Shoulders thrown back, head facing forward, about 10 yards ahead. Definitely her; that unmistakable hair … </p>
<p>I had been tailing her from the main building. Not in a malicious fashion, but in one of desire mixed with crushing shyness. In the main building, she had appeared from a orthogonal hallway. Coincidence? No time to think; I must pursue. My throat is constricted. I was unable to speak. My mind - paralyzed with fear. Overwhelming, overbearing, self-consciousness permeated my existence in those moments. Contrast this with her security, never gazing down at her shoes in search of some non-existent yet fascinating blemish, never gazing side to side in search of some non-existent yet absorbing poster on the wall. </p>
<p>5 steps. 10 steps. 20 steps. 100 beats per minute. 120 beats per minute. 160 beats per minute. Andante. Allegro. Presto. My heartbeat increased in direct proportion with the number of steps I had taken the moment after I had seen her. Her name!! I knew it too! Yet why couldn’t - wouldn’t - I say it?! Wouldn’t I desire a nice, early-morning walk with her? The hallway - such an excellent stage. The golden morning sun - such excellent lighting. The characters - such an excellent pair, phenotypically, genotypically, mentally, intellectually, yes, all the above. The script - a real study in improvisation, yes, a real study of conversation. Yet I could not say her name, or by some means attract attention to my existence. Oh, the painful axiom of esse est percipi. Just as that tree that fell in the forest, I was condemned to never exist to her (that morning, and now ...).</p>
<p>A building, fast approaching. I should be the one opening its door. Instead, she performs the courtesy herself, and darts in. I’m only a few yards behind. I slip in, the door still partially ajar. My eyes scan the room. Where is she? I look up and down the hallway. A few seconds, and I was forever late. I stand in the hallway sheepishly for a minute, and I concede defeat. I walk back to the main building, slightly sweaty. Wait. Concede defeat? To whom? To myself. My psyche battled itself; I wanted to be perceived, yet I did not make any meaningful attempt to achieve such a goal. I have myself to blame, and myself only. </p>
<p>From that day on, my motto became “go big or go home.” Never again would I allow myself to miss such a golden opportunity. Being sure of only this one life, why should I condemn myself to a routine of having hope crushed by reality and subsequent self-pity?</p>