Over the years, I thought I would have accomplished so much more. At 23, I told my grandmother I would be well off by 25. 28 and a week closer to 29 and here I am, chasing my tail, stumbling through the same string of thoughts I had when I was less than a quarter-century old.
Though somehow, through tragedy, I find meaning which produces trajectory.
Fueled by this alien momentum, I’m propelled forward, guided by words passed down by previous people, some like me, some infinitely different.
Time passes, and my belly grows.
Before today, he’s known as someone who minds his business, he finds no pleasure in gossip, only resolution and reason. When observed from the outside, you’d think his composure a flawless pillar of strength and endurance. But inside tells a different story. One of continual damage built over years of silence.
My days are split into two modes: disorder and heaven. Both remain a mystery I wrestle to understand. Each day is spent in battle with what I’m told is the proper way to live.