POW! Says that ol' friendly gun. A dangerously empty firing engine performing an extremely critical role. The boys were sent flying off down the track, and he was among them, somewhere in that riving sea of flying limbs.

"Woooww, they're going so fast" a blonde-haired spectator gushed enthusiastically as she bounced on the sidelines. The pack washed past in a tidal wave of ambition and determination that could naturally be seen on each and every competitor's face. She saw them, easily, that girl, on the trampoline of the side.  She wanted to run with them, to bolt out from the magical rule that was the line and sprint into the throng and charge around the course with the rest of the kids.

But she was only six years old, and her father's hand gripped her tightly. She had a history of running about without control, like most children who were wild and innocent enough to not understand the rules.  And so, she stayed, rooted to the spot, chained almost by the power of law. A law that protected and guided so ruthlessly.

Still, she laughed at the pretty wind as it blew her ultra straight blonde hair all over. It wasn't a brutal tough wind that ferociously blasted one's face, but a sweet breeze as if some divine figure was blowing on the skin. 

The cheering of the crowds and the supportive shouts from family and friends were fading into the wind as the race drew further and further away around the course. Too small to follow the race and her father too lazy to run with her to a mid-point section on the course, they took the ten-minute walk to the finish line. A gaggle of people were hotly anticipating the arrivals of the winners, those lucky enough to have garnered the hard work and talent necessary to be good at a sport.

But the sweet, pretty little girl couldn't bitterly understand this, not yet. She marveled at the runner's speed in her cloud of ignorant bliss that the older generations could only crave. Pretending that the darker shades of thought  are forgotten yields fruitless fond feelings.

And so, she counts the runners, excitedly, until she reaches 34th whom she recognizes as her brother, just being overtaken by the 35th runner, or rather the new 34th runner. Her young self could see he was struggling, limbs shaking back and forth and his face screwed in pained weariness at maintaining such a fast pace over the long distance. Though he was nothing if not mentally tough, and pain wasn't worrisome for him. Men tended to be very mentally strong.

She watched him collapse on the line, and then hauled up by one of the marshals ferrying the exhausted boys away from the finish. He had given the race every ounce of his passionate energy. She was scared, she screamed, what was wrong with her brother? Why did he fall? Was he sick?

Grown-up, curious faces turned to the high pitched squeal of worried terror, which of course she was oblivious to. Her Dad, hurriedly sought to calm her down, dousing her fears with "relax". To a six year old. What did 'relax' even mean? "He's just tired. He's fine now", and that quenched the infant panic. Her tears dried up, and the screams reduced to a shudder, and slowly the adult attention waned and spun away to some other peculiar and irrelevant ambition to which they were inclined.  She was learning, gradually, about human ambition, how it diverts so easily from necessity. Meaning and reason could be  brought to the surface in the seemingly driest deserts.

It was true. He was absolutely fine and dandy. His girlfriend was hugging him and smiling. She was a streak of beauty with light brown hair and some of the most enormous boobs the girl would ever see. Supportive, dutiful, interesting, courageous and loving. The little sister and girlfriend hadn't properly met yet, but still she already knew in her limited capacity for comprehension that the girlfriend was all of those things, and more.

"Hello!" She exclaimed with a bright perfect smile specked with a million dots of glowing phosphorous, and the type of voice adults always reserved for the youngest of children. "You must be Venetia". Yes, that was her name. That is my name. The little girl was me.  But I'm not so little anymore, not so innocent, not so cared for. Just another human in the world.

Reaching the age of 17, I can only gaze back into the mirror of the past with fond envy. That day gave birth to the strongest and singularly true inspiration and ambition ever to exist, within me. Venetia. The overwhelming dream that so many young people envision of competing in the Olympic Games, the one-of-a-kind competition, filled me up completely. And I so often return to those moments of my initial inspiration, acutely recalling each moment in every sense.  Every last sense. Each and every face. All innocent emotions. What better way to know what went wrong than to analyse the source? 

What was it that prevented me from taking the final leap? Was it me? My fault. Or was I just destined for disastrous mayhem? Maybe I'm just destined to be a bolder, an immovable bolder. Perhaps that's just my life. No. That's can't be true. There has to be something. Some kind of reason. Perhaps... if I write everything down I can pierce this acid mist hangs over my mind and torments me with its mystery. Yes. Words can supply so much clarity to a mind flooded with chaotic free radical memory fragments, shredding apart and mixing together in seconds. 

I know  I must begin this journey of the past, right now. There's no point being confused any longer. The solution is within me, I just know it is. Somewhere, probably buried under a million miles of rubble. I just can't waste any more time. Let's just do this. Let the flood of recollection commence. Oh, it's starting. It's starting in only 3, 2... 1...

Now let me whisper Action...!