It’s bizarre how, to this day, old sensations and emotions can be refreshed and felt as new as the time they were created. Trauma is the correct word, but I don’t imagine clenched fists and raised voices, rather more cataclysmic events, akin to an asteroid plummeting to earth and caving in its surface of honed molten metals and ancient rock with the ease of a man as he takes a bite of apple with a full mouth of teeth.

These days, in my depths, I know there is no answer, no rhyme, and no reason. There is no diagnosing a question like _Miranda, like there is no diagnosing a question like ^Anybody. Maybe you can dress up a couple of my aspects with pretty, negotiable titles, ones that can be measured and treated or managed. Maybe. And maybe, that’s not a bad thing. Actually, I’m pretty certain that it isn’t.

But there is nothing that’s going to wipe the slate clean, and give that full feeling that nothing ever existed before now. I don’t think that’s the goal, the way we treat the mental states, but it kinda looks like it, and I know that’s not something I will ever, can ever, would ever, achieve.

So when I say, I’m here, I’m here, and this is it, this is it, it’s not a bad thing, either. I have nowhere else to go, and thank god, because I’m tired of running, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

_{Please take me as I am, everyday, only this way, no matter how it looks, no matter how hard it is. Please love yourself, vigorously, holding fast that there is only you, and only you can give yourself to others, and make those connections that stop this world from feeling so fiercely cold and violent.}

There’s no leaving any of it behind, but there’s no carrying on the same way, either.

This is my beautiful mess. My tangled web of wonders. My life.