How could one float through life by self and imposed negligence to the end of understanding more about humanity when they never had it to begin with? How was I supposed to know? I never knew what I lost.

An in-between place.

Neither too high nor low.

A resting point for me to know.

When I closed my eyes, the comings and goings of life ceased to be cemented in my consciousness. The simple process protected me, providing respite from reality.

WRITE. Write. Write. I’ll take one written word, whatever’s a part of the English language.

Writing is a mental marathon accomplished by resilience and invention.

I wished to be where I could be – a judicious reality. I bore the burden of proper choice in actuality. A chosen path made without foresight culminated in failure.

I place hope in others.

I cultivate love in myself.

Together, they outweigh any uncertainty.

The details change with time and age. Its history never gets old. Secrets lie in the imagination. Nostalgia seeps from the walls in my room.

My mind was split in at least two pieces, I was sure of that. The many aspects of myself shattered at a single point on the mirror of materialism. From the broken glass, the cracks sculpted a scene of a self that desperately yearned to be whole.