The meaning of: green means go

*****So, this isn't the best, and it needs something, but it's my life. It explains greenmeans-go. a little bit.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Her alarm screeches, 6:00 A.M., but she is already awake. Her legs are shaking and aching. She knows what today is; it is time to go. The road is beckoning, her shoes are crying lonesome please, and her feet say nothing less than “go”.

Oh, summer, she almost squeals, wriggling out of her light sheets. The heat, the sun, the time; her life is here; it is summer. Days are spent with nothing but soccer balls and running shoes. Some are overflowing with laughter and friends, others with papers filled with words and ideas, hers and otherwise. This is her joy.

She visit’s the kitchen for her cereal and milk. It is so fresh and happy. The slight crackle of each flake turns her cheeks a little bit more. Delicious. She slurps the milk from the flake less bowl with great gusto.

Beginning to rummage through the piles of clothes that never seem to be in the dresser, her day has begun. Beautiful, some pink athletic shorts and a cut off t-shirt are pulled off the top of the pile. These quickly replace the oversized shirt that clothed her in her sleep. Let’s just bunch her hair into a bun and tighten her shoes and she is off.

On the way to the window, the precious ipod is acquired and begins to blast her favorite song; today, it is Survivor: The Eye of the Tiger.

This girl is the Tiger as she lifts up the window of her single-storied bedroom, so as not to disturb her sleeping sisters, and jumps out. The rush of early morning intensifies all of her senses as she takes off.

First, the fence, it is hip high and rusting. She takes it with a single bound to find the calling road. Now, her heels hit the waiting pavement and she beams. Adrenaline pushes her past the first mile in the calm morning.

These are the runs that make her life worth the journey. It is a perfect temperature with the sun barely peeking over the horizon. There is no sign of civilization because she is the only one awake. It is just her music, and her road.

Two more miles fly by as her play list winds down. She is home. The road has been satisfied by her feet, but her ball and goal feel neglected.

She enters the house in silence to inhale three glasses of water. Satisfied, she replaces her shoes with her boots and switches play lists. “Let’s play“, she thinks, as she sprints the one hundred five yards of her backyard following her rolling soccer ball.

An hour is spent juggling and shooting against the mid-sized goal in the middle of her yard. She is juggling again, now to an exotic sounding Latin song, and she is counting 1-2-3-4-… The ball has not touched the ground. Now she counts 10-20-30-40-... Excitement is rising in her. See, her record is forty-five, and she is, frankly, killing it right now. The ball drops to the earth as she sprawls to save it; the counting stops, 100.

She falls to the ground next to her ball, exhausted as she screams and wriggles. One hundred juggles, ONE HUNDRED JUGGLES! “YAY”, is all that she may say.

This is joy; this was a goal accomplished. This is morning.

Good morning world, Charlotte is happy!

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

My alarm resounds, 6:00 A.M., but I’m already awake. Yet again, it is time to go. It’s the time for smiles and laughs, for the sun to shine away yesterday. It is tomorrow.

Oh, tomorrow, I sigh as I begin to softly caress my pulsating red eyes. Tomorrow is that promise that remains for me; thank you Little Orphan Anne. I spent yet another night, eyes sealed shut, praying for tomorrow. I lay awake wishing for the sun; it has never failed me yet. That is my soul hope.

Yesterday is fear; it is regret and mourning. It was the first day of my worst days, winter.

Winter is fresh, and the falling snow is beautiful. However, for me, it is depression. There is something to the season that makes me wheeze. Every year, of the three hundred and sixty-five days, there are near one hundred of which I dread in the back of my head.

I finally heave myself from the warm cocoon of my comforter onto the cold an waiting carpet, which was at one time once plush, but since has lost all redeeming qualities. I traverse my room in silence to the long and skinny mirror, and take a glance.

Through this simple glance, I see a tired, abused, sad, red eyed and ragged teenager. I see myself. In this peek, I recall the events dragging me to this lowly state and silently weep. These are dry sobs for my tears ran out a month ago.

I remember the exhaustion of over work at soccer training, the tears of frustration at my failures and inability to improve. I walk to the bathroom and wash away the evidence of last night’s cry.

There was that inevitable separation I dread daily, but I know that it is upon me. He is moving on and I cannot and should not stop him. They say this is the best for us both; I do not see my advantage. I go to the kitchen to eat my daily bowl of cereal; not even that makes me smile.

I think back to that night my father called a family meeting. Family meeting equals bad news; even with his unsheltered optimism I knew that he was worried. The job hunt was on… again. (Damn economy) I put on my school clothes, a ridiculous uniform, and prep myself for the day ahead.

As the preparation continues I remember that I have not talked to my best friend in months; both of our lives are so busy, and it is hard to meet in the middle. A brush finds its way through my tangled curls. My grades have dropped immensely since the commencing of this second semester. I need to get back on track, but I can’t locate these tracks. The heat of my straightened reddens my flesh. My friends turn to me, Madam Positive, for their daily pick-me-up, but yesterday it became so unbearable that I could not even do that simple act for them. It is my sole calling to cheer up the oppressed and depressed, but I have become a failure. Makeup is smeared over my face for that last hope of a convincing façade.

These are the stories that haunt me daily; they are my life. It is real. I cannot show weakness; my family is counting on me. So, I put on my happy face and walk to the car to endure another day.

Another day of school. Another day of fake smiles and pointless laughter. A day to play soccer and run until it hurts. These are my outlets.

No one knows of this inner turmoil. On the outside, I am a rock. However, underneath it all I know what I am. I am a car at a stoplight. It just turned green, and everyone is whizzing by. I stalled out; every time someone offers a jump I sputter and then fail again. I am immobile. I am going nowhere-- maybe backwards, but nowhere just the same.

I walk out the door into the dim morning. My coat is pulled near as I trudge through the wind.

This is sad; this is failure. This is morning.

Good morning world. Come on Charlotte-- green means go.