I must have wrote this in July back when everything was shitty:
There’s too many pieces of me and none of them fit together
I loved and loathed puzzles as a child. I love the simplicity of knowing that with the right combination of luck and determination I would get the picture on the box. I hated when there were too many pieces that were the same shade of blue but I could always seem to find the corners or make the frame.
I feel more every day that I am building a puzzle version of me and I don’t have any corners, I don’t have a frame and all the pieces are just colors as if I picked a Monet or a Van Gogh and the beauty of impressionism is working against me
On one hand (I whisper like Tevye knowing I’m going to end up with several more hands than the average human) I have a history whose origins are fuzzy and dark. I worry that something happened and that the glass shard has been lodged in my eye for longer than I suspected.
On the other the past weeks and months have shown me collided universes and theories and planets but maybe none of it’s been real for the simple reason that I can’t see.
On the other hand I have the saga of destructive and destroyed dreams and the overwhelming fear of everything turning to dust in my palms all over again and again and again and again.
On the other I have the daily reminder that I’m a bull in a china shop and that I have no idea what I’m doing and I’ve caused my own destruction enough times to believe I know the warning signs
And on the other hand I think I’ve been building a puzzle of glass shards and not of cardboard colored pieces and maybe that’s why all my hands are bloody…but that could also be because I’ve been trying to do heart surgery barefisted
when do I stop being the catalyst in others stories and start being the hero of my own?