Out of a gunnysack fall red rabbits, into the crucible to be rendered an emulsion

We all sit in our own orchestrations of doubt. I swim in my edited creation, suited to my temperament, and find it hard to leave. It’s so easy to be alone, when you think about it. The inexplicable, mind-fuck thing is that, we all are islands. Every relationship we cultivate are bridges that take effort to build, every feeble connection a boat that may be a one or two-way trip. But essentially, when pared down—we are islands. The sun that is shining on us in an egalitarian manner is the shared condition of being human; the light in our existence is humanity itself. If not for that, we would be solitary, and dark. I = a veritable island, with my own shape and shore, as small or as expansive as I want to be.

There is a wilderness inside me. I am not angry. It’s just hard to be thoughtful and gentle to some people, on some days. I’m slowly losing the talent of pretending to be affable with the people I don’t like…but when you think about it, that’s not such a loss, is it? Yet the more I let the wilderness take rein and take me away from people, even those that I don’t like, genuine warmth slips away from me too. Cowardice feels like icy fingers. People are around for a reason. 

I can say that I just want to stop being disappointed. I can continue on and on for years about how I never get what I deserve. Yet I’ve never asked myself about what I deserve, exactly. Another random thing, I'm afraid of being defined by association. Sometimes I think I'm a hideous human being. That’s why the hardest, (and loftiest) goal for me is to be brave. And to be kind.

There are not enough hours in the world to love what I love. The biggest mistake I constantly make is, with that in mind, to not try at all.