Every notion of progress is toxic to my spirit, rendering me a matrix of instability, knowing full well of the blowfish in my chest, ready to expand and crush the bindings between my heart and sternum. Yet I tread forward on muddy tires, yanking the wheel side to side, progressing to that final destination. I slip, I panic, I'm unsure. But somehow I manage to smile, because this island I'm on is surrounded by a vast ocean of comfort, and it yields to me delicious fruit, which I pluck and pop into my mouth. The grapes explode under the force of my tongue and cheek, similar to that of my heart and sternum under the load of expectations. The reward is sweet and nurturing.