Drive.

There are of a handful of ways to progress: determination, zest, passion, and in my humble opinion, drive. Drive, in this manner is not to be confused with determination, as it is fueled by another element outside of determination. I have subscribed to determination for the better part of a decade. It is the formula of twice the "no's" to the "that's impossible", mixed in equal parts to a self-made "there has to be more than this" mixture.  That has worked many times that I have felt it would not. Drive however, is a whole other beast. Drive is feeling and ambition mixed with solid, 140-proof kick-your-ass awesomeness. 

I stumbled upon drive recently.  Unexpectedly actually.  Come to find out, I am without zest if not for failure.  And as life would have it, I have failed. A lot. Drive appeared at the intersection of this is how amazing your life is (just out out of reach) and that blase  feeling of going through the motions day after day.  My internal workings operate most of time on formulas.  I wouldn't call them math formulas, or even of a chemical nature. They're life mixtures of circumstances to experience.  My drive comes in small, stabbing, insecurity measures of an "I may be less than thou" facade, and I fain at the time I will not feel that = drive. Drive, as one would have it in the day and life of an antiquated letter-writer, socially-soluble listener of issues, and want-er for the best and better of all for everyone, woman of my stature - is a well practiced skit in the Ego.  I don't like ego, so this is a *huge* deal.  My entrance on stage during the first airing of "Drive" involves my right eye being squinted, left hip out with hand upon it (nails are probably painted cherry red) and the heels I don are the neon orange ones that speak to my second and third layers of personality.  In this presentation, my other identity is unafraid, absolutely not insecure, ...unhinged.  My hair is big -  in a Farrah Fawcet kind of way, and my smile does not elude to the thoughts that would be fondling themselves while sifting through old ashes. 

Damn ashes. 

Burned and still rendering ...

No, not rendering.  They're dead. This is drive, after all. Drive in its present form is one helluva mastermind. That siren red lipstick is going to be a daily occurrence, and the plan meeting drive is  unabashed, completely assured, and salable. Gong to work on delineating what needs be the constant: food, for one. Food brings friends.  Friends bring stories. And stories bring support (this is assuming the food is good).  My food is good.  Drivers have good food.  Hang on, woman with drive...does that mean I'm a driver?  I'm a good driver for that matter.  Either way - my fingernails may have dirt beneath the nail bed, and my feet will most definitely contain earth-matter, but I will still be polished.  To the point that seeking "drive" is going to be on everyone's next best doers list.  Sign on up; I love company and I could use a hand in maintaining focus.