This is what History class is good for,

And so I was sitting in class staring at the ceiling, trying to count the pockmarks in the tiles. They reminded me of stars and they reminded me of pebbles in a fish tank, but most of all, they reminded me of the missteps I've ... stepped into. Infinite in yesterdays, passing moments and in the intangible calendar; stretching forth until and beyond my closing scene. It also made me think; just as the spots on the ceiling maybe my mistakes were intentional. Each mark isn't planned specifically, but the general idea is that there will be punctures, and there will be many. With this in mind, fearing my missteps seems a silly thing to do. It's time to charge into my blunders with a flying leap [much like a mud puddle] and leave written evidence of the experience.