Existential crap

My life is a bundle of messes all wrapped up in Christmas time gift paper that makes you think something cute and endearing like a tiny kitten, or puppy, or duckling will pop out. Instead you find a haggard mutt, once the runt of his litter, nestled into pieces of trash. Upon closer inspection, you will find the trash is actually discarded sketches and writings.
My past hopes.
My future expectations.

The spit from my soul.

I feel wrecked. Superannuated. Potentially unusable.

Potential. Do I carry any now? Or has it all faded?

I know these things are all in my head but they’re hard to ignore.

They’re easy to trust, to masochistically cherish.

Do I want to be awful? Crazy? Beyond the reach of God?

No. Not really.

Not really at all.

Sometimes I think I am.

I think I put myself there.

But no, not really.

Not really at all.

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