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.
12 am, 1 am, 2, 3. In exchange for sleep, I grind out the minutes, the seconds; caffeine rushing through my blood, momentum blurring in the background.
I have no plan, no road map, only an idea, and a digital watch on my wrist to remind me how much time I have left, and how much time I’ve spent.
For now, I suppose that’s enough. Then again, maybe not.
The good news is I’ve begun to practice accepting my imperfections. For the past couple of days, I’ve written stories that feel nice to write but make little sense. And I’m okay with that.