Tools

I have a lot of words, but I know that language loses value with numbers.

Heartbreak is terrifying because it's so dull, so indefinite, that there's no way to apply pressure. Things make no sense.

This is my Bricolage. When I woke up, I woke up with the knowledge that my tools today would be different than yesterdays, and that I must try to do my best with what I have. I tried. I really, really tried to do the right thing. I am afraid because I don't know whether I was right or not.

My Anguish of Existentialism is my fear that there is no right or wrong, but only what we make for ourselves. Does that mean my decision was a failure? To cite something so intangible that it could never be acquired as a reason for heartbreak? I don't know.



The worst part was watching her drive away knowing that it used to be my responsibility to care for those hurt emotions, and now it is my responsibility to have nothing to do with them. I flashed back to the doorstep in the village where I left chelsea crying. Press me from all sides like a pressure cooker. Refine me, I lost my words. My tool, abandoned for a new center.

Can I cry out to god and wonder if it is his plan? I don't believe in a plan. But I suppose that's my center, isn't it. So I can cry out and ask

God, was this the right decision? Was I anticipating misery? Or causing it?

More importantly, I can ask

God, can I borrow your comfort? I need some peace right about now, as I try to function.

And most importantly

God, can you do what I never could? Can you be a shoulder for her as she heals the wounds that I inflicted?



Shit happens, one day at a time.