With a pocket full of shells
Would there have been any easier way to say it, I would, but there really is not. I swam all the way back to square one. An inch farther from where I was when I had lost everything in a fell swoop. My only hope is to do this one better than the last time around. The whole process of spiritual recuperation really is as exhausting as I had imagined it to be. On top of that there is an uneasy feeling in the background that nothing is still tagged to end, meaning all that came before now has the potential to smack me right back in. Where I was, at my most miserable, but only this time this loss completely destroys me permanently. Wherever I go I fear the smell of rabbits, of bulls, and of stars, and anything resembling niceties. Nothing nice is ever really nice. Everything nice comes at a cost. I still stand tall, eager for the new, but scarred so very internally that the mere feeling of microrejection bites me hard, and it coils me into foetal, and wallowing into self-despair becomes my o...