Fix you ≠ fix me.

Listening to: Coldplay "Fix You"

I was never handy with a hammer, as much as I wanted to be. Shop class was always an exciting disaster; the thought of creating something extravagant (read: functional) always propelled me to try, though my jewelry box looked more like a parallelogram and by the third project I secretly wished I had taken home-ec instead.

Still every now-and-then, I will pick up a power tool, at the dismay of all watching, I'm sure and instead of building something from scratch, I'll try to fix something that's broken.

What is it about me that is drawn to broken things?

Namely people (read: men) but even more-so recently, broken situations; Things that my heart longs to rectify but solutions aren't in my power. For a long time, I've attributed it to my giving nature-- wanting to help others succeed, however minuscule my efforts. In helping others, the success or failure is not my own; when they succeed I can rejoice but when they fail, it's no skin off my back. The reward is intrinsic but still results in empty hands.

And I can admit my own fear of failure had pacified me into believing that the achievements of others-- assisted by me-- is sufficient for this point in my life.

But it's not true.

There is too much greatness inside me to use it just for others. Whether I pass with flying colors or fall flat on my face with the world watching, I have to start taking chances for myself again.