We create our own reality. We live in whatever space we build for ourselves. We are responsible for our future, perhaps not our past. We choose the avenues that we walk down and who we become. We spend our life building the house that we live in.
I sit here staring at the man who is responsible for all of my empty places and most of my broken pieces, who has never showed up, and I realized he has been shattered into a million pieces by this life and his choices. He is ill and alone. He is empty. And yet: What power to walk away and leave such a large hole. And here I am, trying to mend what? Trying to find what? I want to take my money and light it on fire. Catch eyes with a stranger, wrap their arms around my body and pull them into me. Pour myself a drink, and then one more, and then one more. Shake myself free from anything good because I don’t deserve it. I want to gouge out whatever part of me carries part of him. He is a stranger to me, yet holds my soul under water. His grip squeezing out any peace. This skeleton, this shell. A mere outline of a greater story of could-have-been. Perhaps it was out of kindness that he stayed away from us all, knowing his brokenness had sharp edges, knowing they would pierce the soft, smooth skin of his children.
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