The point of writing is to prepare the reader to better endure or enjoy living.
Lately as I write so I find myself faltering more and more. The river runs dry, waltzing on bones with the seabed.
Parched and sauntering through this archeologist’s delight sometimes God graces you with your own sweat to make it through the other side.
Walking through these bedrooms I see fingerprints all smudged – controllers abandoned, posters rolled up in the closet. Maybe cobwebs will be the new resident.
It just is.
When I look in the mirror I do not know what is staring back. It is cold and abyssal – it seems to pretend to be all otherwise. Looking over these words, half of them feel foreign.