I am afraid of losing my breath. I don't like holding my breath under water for too long; remember as a child how someone would always challenge you to a breath-holding contest? I would hate those. Feeling your brain panic in your head, feeling your chest start to pound. I would always give up early, afraid my organs would rebel and punish me later. When I played basketball I would never push myself to exhaustion during a game; if I felt myself breathing really heavily, without being about to reign it in, I'd pray for a break, a whistle, a call from the referee to pause the game for a blink of an eye. If all else failed, I'd ask to sit down. Just for a few seconds. Just to feel like I was in control. And how the caution has translated into my life, how I estimate with a huge margin for chance mishaps, thinking what could go wrong, or at the very least, how many red lights I could hit on the way. It brings me too often to say, "why bother?", it keeps me from going all chips in. I think it's time to hit the pool and practice not breathing, bring on the threat of organ mutiny, run like hell until my lungs are wheezing in an unattractive symphony of grasping for air. On the brink of wildness is where I would like to someday be.