As the smoldering heat wave of Georgia’s summer subsides, breaking into the first crisp whisper of stark autumn winds, I am changing. While sunshine remains synonymous with happiness, brightness, and well being, as with anything in life too much exposure can lead to burned wings. I have been sent spiraling, crashing down to the harsh shiny surface of reality. I wake up to a pounding head; ominous clouds abound me. My hands are bloodied with bits of gravel and dirt stuck in tiny pockets of my skin where I braced my fall. Destruction lies around me glittering like forgotten pieces of Mylar, scattered on a sticky dance floor that once held celebration of a solstice. The corpses of my mistakes have taken form and I am forced here to face them as I slowly begin to stand. I ask myself: why do I do things that hurt me? What leads to self-destructive behavior? If we break it down to the behavioral level, and suppose the hypothesis “destruction is a form of creation”, the