It is imperfection that ails me, I'm quietly seething. And its the lack of constructive appeal that ails me. Over the past month, there has been hilarity, a set of ups and downs, and strangely piquing things that have spewed resentment.
I reflect on a few questions. If there was a recipe to cure my issues, I would have found it by now. I am but a wanderer, something of a nomad with some emotional damage. It's never easy, it makes me tired and not wanting to do the same thing again. I think of the possibilities and the feeling that comes with it. But then, who are others to label you as such?
I have things to do and accomplish and it's just not going to happen like this. Everything has earned its place in an abode of memories, a haven where I store them as collectibles.
I seek to be free of the guilt that comes with anything that's broken and can't be fixed. But there is a shadow of doubt too, it would eat me alive if ever the opportunity arose. Memories are like mirrors, for the more you look into them, the more you notice the little things, the subtler nuances.
"All the crazy shit I did tonight, they will be the best memories…"