It’s easier to separate the two. It’s harder to discern the flaws when it’s almost too large to see. There’s this blur of ideas and dreams and it’s mixed in with what’s happened, what might happen, and all those other things I prefer not to dwell on whenever possible. What is it, but impulses and misconstrued feelings? I can’t demonstrate them; we’re incapable now, aren’t we? Too many walls, and now this fortress, with its dull, grey bricks and towers that scrape the sky. But there’s nothing to hide, isn’t that the real secret? I’ve built up this place, but I swear to
God when I look, there’s nothing in it. Nothing. Nothing at all.

It’s always a clinking of chains, that distinctive sound of metal scraping over concrete, or soft, forgiving earth. There’s nothing here for me. All I have are the skies above and the trees below, and it will have to be enough, that memory of a perfect window.

I won’t be able to smell it, taste it, or touch it, because I am not worthy. I am not worthy. I failed, in all my brokenness to become better than the sum of my parts. And I will fail, again and again, and die each day like the sun does on the horizon. And I will rise again, each morning, yearning and clawing at what I think I must have.

What a miserable existence it should be. It is at times; I confess even I am jaded by the few decencies I am afforded. I sneer at them, but snatch them up and stash them away when no one is looking. All is not dead or lost. Something holds all this worthlessness together, some integral piece.

I guess it’s what you would call a soul.


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