I break myself.

I've lived lifetimes, grown to love people and places and finally I've found a purpose... but then the light dims and the pages won't let me in, and I'm alone again.

I kill my darlings in an unceasing search for perfection, all the while knowing that perfection is in itself an imperfect construction born of capitalism and clockwork machinery. I beat my brain bloody over the things I don't want to do, stop myself from doing what I dream of, because if I'm not being productive then I'm worth nothing but... if I'm not happy now, when will I get to start?

I break myself to fit in, to stand out, to cram myself into molds that were never built to accommodate the human body and to tear them open when they don't feel right. I pick through the shards of myself as my hands start to bleed. I'm looking for something, anything, but all I can find are pieces of my own distorted reflection.

Maybe we're all just three-dimensional mosaics, shattered pieces hanging suspended and glittering in the void. Maybe we fit together, not edge-to-scraping-edge but with a small abyss between us. Are we even built to swirl slowly in constellations, gleaming in the light of our neighbors, outermost layers of raw edges glinting protectively? Is this the only way to survive the collisions, the abrupt transition between self-absorption and outright war? Is this even living?

I am recursive destruction, looping back onto myself. I break myself so I don't break others.

What would happen if I just... let go?

Instead,

I break myself.