SMASH

I broke it. So I'm starting all over again. Don't think for a second that I mind that. I mean. Aside from the constant uncertainty and slightly unsafe feeling and whatnot. The itchiness of me shedding my skin again again again. The struggle out of the cocoon.

But I don't have a choice. I tend to rise to the occasion whether I want to or not.

Self-preservation has been my default mode for so long, I've forgotten how to give up I suppose.

The down side: I don't have emotions. Well. I suppose I do but I can't tell when they are happening or what they are. I don't remember the last time I felt happy or sad or proud or angry or anything without feeling like I was watching it on a screen. The projected life. It's all I've afforded myself.

Because you can leave the theater. Turn off the TV. Shut the book. Throw the laptop.

It's much safer, you know.

But I've lost many this way. So many. I never got the chance to tell them what the real thing was because I didn't know. I couldn't tell. All I knew was that I hurt, and I figured that was more than enough information. Especially if I screamed it.

I gave them all a hard way to go. A map with no key. All of the pieces with none of the context. All those smashed bits, I figured someone would eventually make sense of them. Put me back together.

That's the problem with being on a screen. You get to the point where you're assuming a happy ending. Or at least a noteworthy story.

But I've gotten here and produced not much. No kids. No great love. No novel. No legacy.

All I've got to show for it right now is pieces.