You got this. Really.

I guess I couldn't do it. It must have been too hard.
I couldn't do it, not even for a thousand diamond rings.
Cause being what I'm not is the hardest damn thing.

You can suppress whatever it is that haunts you but it will do just that; haunt you.
So grab it by it's throat and tear its insides out.
That's the only way you'll get it forever from your here and now.

Then swing a leg over the not so quiet horses and see where they run you off to.
I mean that.
I mean it as much metaphorically as I do literally.

No plan is probably the best plan.
Because what's going to go down isn't your plan anyhow but God's.
So I don't assume there's much use in getting riled up with a schedule in hand.

I'm not telling you what to do.
It's written down as much for myself as anyone else.
I need to read and reread this too.

You don't need to be any one thing.
Be mess of passionate emotions.
The kind that coarse through the pores of everything you touch.

Be achy muscles and cold mornings.
Be someone's hot cup of coffee.
Or a rebel heart, a bohemian soul, a godforsaken gypsy.

Let your hair be wild, let it mirror your spirit.
Be the eyes that are both easy and hard to look into.
Always staring but piercing to meet with.

Don't be scared.
Scratch that.
Be terrified.
And let that shit drive you.
To be strong.
And courageous.

You're good enough; the blood that pulses beneath your skin is red hot and wired.
Spit on the doubts you have in yourself.
Tell them to go straight to hell.

And just roll with it.
Bounce from place to place.
Know when your heart is telling you that you've stayed long enough.

And dammit, love.
Love people and love animals.
And for those who have your back, have theirs too.

Hike till your lungs hurt.
Push your body till its weary and then let it grow stronger.
Be bold in your beliefs.

Speak loud.
Laugh louder.
Be the cackle in the crowd.

The critics are bastards anyway.
So stand with your shoulders square.
Stand with your heart centered.

You got this.
Really.

Xoxo, Gussie