In this motionless state, I realized I became guarded and frail and fearful in ways I never imagined. I realized I’m not entirely satisfied, but also found tremendous pleasure in the sacrifice. Living imperfectly and learning the ropes of real rounded adulthood has been a life-giving light for me, but it never feels like enough. It feels like a private crapshoot I’m trying to digest into a diamond. It feels like walking a long fucking way and seeing no distance. Treadmill. Treading. Just barely keeping my head high enough to survive.

Isn’t that sad?

Isn’t that so fucking beautiful?

Everyday, I barely look up enough to see what’s ahead, navigating on bare-bone hopes boosted by these teeny fleeting comforts that never seem to flourish into more. Whether I’m thinking deep & looking close or laughing loud & holding feverishly loose, my whole ship is on the cusp of crashing into the only thing casting light across these desperately fierce and lonely seas. It’s exhausting no matter what I do, but here comes Randa anyway, gracelessly treading through the deep shit wherever I go, because it’s the only way I know how. Pieces of my heart break and re-break daily, and I pick up what I can, and I carry it home, and I glue myself back together for round 2. Round 3. Round 4. Round 5. Round 6. What round am I on now? God, I lost count a long time ago. I get up and fight every goddamn day, sometimes multiple times. I’m bruised without touching anything, scratched by my tears, and beaten down by words alone, but goddamn, I put my shoes go on, and I get out there as quick as I can; as soon as I pull myself together.

All we have is this, now, so why do I find it so impossible to grasp mine, here?