My red hair glows, a flaming copper mane, and I laugh. I pull on my helmet, stoked to lay down my best tricks this time and every time. I drop in.
I swoosh down over the smooth snow of the half-pipe, picking up speed. I am a daredevil, thrilled by the challenge. I fly up over the lip of the wall to perform in the wide open sky. My body twists, spins, flips and rotates. One after the other, I throw down my tricks with style and power. I am the flying tomato, a symbol of relaxed freedom in a fiery marriage with excellence, individuality and the creative spirit. With perfect balance, I stick the landings.
I am not sluggish and inward-looking, wondering what I should do with my day. I do not spend time on repetitive domestic tasks like unloading the dishwasher. Nor do I waste time looking for a lost sock or re-folding clothes in a drawer. No. I do not follow a mundane schedule or walk in a rut, and I am not constantly straightening things up.
Instead, I drop down by helicopter into the Alaskan wilderness, where I speed over the rugged terrain on my board--outracing avalanches and flying over gorges. I cut a path, smooth and fast, down the mountain's face. I know how to dig a body from the snow, and I am unafraid, riding fearlessly through time.
I do not hem myself in, and I am not limited by body or mind. I don't stroll to the bakery, questioning my life's purpose, feeling uncertain and alone. I don't focus on commas and semicolons and rules--or on what others think--to give me legitimacy.
I am the one who comes up with the tricks while lying in my bed at night, the particular flips and rotations. I create them, and friends participate in the joy and applaud. I go big. A double McTwist, back-to-back double corks. I throw down my run. I stomp it.
