I have a journal I barely use. It is strange, for I have always filled my journals in the past. This one is different. It defies me to write in it whenever I look at it. Has the writer changed? Or can the equipment be to blame? I remember I used to love to write, but something is wrong. The words escape me; the words are wrong. What exactly are they running from? Perhaps at long last, I have discovered that deep in my heart of hearts, I have nothing left to say.

I was raised on the notion that deeply embedded in every soul there is an ugly thing - an inescapable wretchedness. It is born of a hundred thousand inconsequential, long-forgotten injustices. It is a thing that calls out for love in whatever form it can get and howls in rage when fate throws unexpected trials in our way. It beats against all our ideals and ideas of self worth and the worth of others until there is nothing left but a wound in need of some kind of dressing. A toxic love can cover this wound and hide it from the world, but it is not clean. It will fester. Make our blood boil. Make our minds go numb. Make our hearts feel lost. How intoxicating a thing like this can be - how wholesome in its imperfection - beautifully dire - horrifically dysfunctional - how human.

You don't realize how dirty you can get on an adventure until you find yourself in the thick of it. I was no stranger to dirt or sweat when I went on my own sort of adventure, but there is something about the security and constancy of home that encourages bathing and hygiene in a way that is absent out there in the wild world. Mind you, you hardly care what you smell like while running for your life, but I digress. Suffice it to say when I stumbled into a modest little motel covered in blood and all sorts, I was made keenly aware of the issue by the expression of the young man behind the counter. Before he picked his jaw up from the floor, I managed to compose myself and calmly say, "One room, one night, please."

I never could quite distinguish the color of his eyes; they were deep-set and small, almost beady, and the light was always either too dim or too bright to allow for such details to be noticed. I should have known then not to trust such eyes. He was always winking too, as though he had a secret he wanted to tell me. Looking back, it's almost as though he couldn't bear to meet my gaze directly. I could not tell what color his eyes were, but I can't forget the glint of shame in them. I sorely wish I could.

I would strike the idea of determining fairness down as a null point regardless of the outcome of any debate. The concept of advantage and disadvantage implies unfairness, inequality, disproportionate odds of success; however, fairness, or the lack thereof, has little consequence in the universe we live in. But someone clever once wrote about how creativity thrives on limitations, and though their name escapes me now, I am reminded of the contents of that article.

For instance, if a group of filmmakers only has one day to make a ten minute film that only uses ten words with a limited budget, they sometimes create a masterpiece because of how much extra thought and consideration is required to accomplish the task with the time and resources available, but if you give the same group a year to make an hour long movie with a limitless budget and no restrictions, you might well end up with a billion-dollar flop because the artistic vision of the group relied on the limitations to give them focus and direction.

That was the gist of the article and the evidence presented in it. One could certainly argue that the original group was at a disadvantage to the later group as far as resources, but they were ultimately more successful anyway. I find it curious how disadvantage can actually stimulate success in the realm of art. On the surface it is a great contradiction to what we've learned about the nature of success and fairness, but culturally speaking, it makes sense. Why else would we always root for the underdog? To triumph in the face of insurmountable odds is an inspiring notion, and inspiration can tip the scales in all kinds of unexpected ways.

I had reached the point where I figured I must be unlovable; either because I was too ugly on the inside or because I simply wouldn't let people get close. The result was the same. How can you love someone if they don't let you? Thusly, it was decided that I was unlovable. He didn't understand for the longest time, and for some reason, I didn't cut him out of my life when it became clear that he wanted to love me. It is natural to want to be loved, but it is not right to lead someone on. I wanted to love him too, but I didn't you see. I couldn't. My head and my heart went to war over it. Stupid. The truth is that I cannot be touched without unleashing chaos. I sent an apology and then lost his number. Good thing too. I am too weak to resist the prospect of being seen and being loved even when I cannot be touched.

The silver marks on her legs were trophies from her soccer days. She had been very good at taking hits then--though less so now. She would be surprised by how many scars there were if she ever bothered to look at herself, but perhaps, when healing is mostly done, this is the best way forward. Once, her own teammate trampled her chasing the ball. A knee to the head and a cleat to the thigh left very little in the way of blood, but wounded deeper than you might think. Two others ran over her after that. You aren't meant to stay down in a fast paced environment, of course, but it took too long to rise. 'It was your own fault being in the way like that,' naturally, her father said, 'you should have gotten up quiker.' Head still aching from the initial blow, she said nothing, and did not see the bleeding wounds all over her body. She did not look down; only forward. She did not cry. She did not question the narrative, though perhaps, she should have.