Little Poor Me 5

The warp and weft of who we are and who we want to be:

Who we are is the strong, taut framework over which we stretch the idea of ourselves, until the two form a seamless, flowing cloth we wear when in good company, and bad, or alone.

But it’s all there.

The idea of ourselves is only ever held in place by the reality of ourselves which created it. The reality of ourselves is only ever kept from unravelling into chaos and madness by the careful pattern we call our identity.

This is the warp and weft of who we are, and who we want to be.

Nothing of this is bad: it’s human, and fine, and necessary. We can’t survive as pure animal reality, or untempered ideal. Each one tells a lie to the other, and so settles a truth between the two.

It’s the balance that matters.

Living life in a spare bedroom. I feel like a guest in my own brain.

That’s not me in the mirror. That’s some thing. Some terrible idea of a person, roughly packed into a mockery of the approved shape and style of humanness.

Those aren’t my words leaving my lips, and they’re not my ideas entering your ears. They’re just the quivering of genetic acids filthed through chance, packaged by time and place, and sold to you courtesy of the good people at General Electric.

It’s a dream fucking a nightmare.


But I’m doing alright. Nothing much. You?


Regret and hurt are the household gods I carry with me out of the house each day.

The those that done to you, and the that you’ve done to others. It’s the simple equation with the difficult math.

Given enough time, it becomes a spiral-shaped difficulty to remember if I hurt, or was harmed; if I acted out of self-defense, or was taking punishment for wrongs I inflicted.

I hit him, he came at me. Hysteron proteron.

It’s difficult to tell the cart from the horse, anymore.

It’s difficult to know why it matters.


Make plans and keep them; make promises and break them. Wear away your welcome, while there’s still a welcome to wear. You’ve made a bed somewhere, so sleep in it, or not. Or you haven’t, and don’t.

Those may be the only choices you really have.

This may only be the idea of a life, but it’s the only real idea we have of life at all. Everything here is fiction, but everything else is fantasy.

That’s why it matters.

It matters because it is.

Life limped its way into the most important thing we have, because it was the only candidate.

And we’re still trying to vote for something else.


So stain the world; it’ll wash out.

We’re the idiot-wanderers of the universe; regretful heirs to nothing in particular; drifting, ever drifting toward wine-dark sleep.

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