A slow walk preceded my surrender. It was not a good surrender. It was not smooth.
There was a heavy gas full of sludge from the old steel pipes and it wilted my innards.
I sat down. I watched my empty plate, wondering why the surrender was so slow. I sat back in my chair and I felt my insides dripping into my tennis shoes. I picked up a blue, plastic cup, needing to drink slowly because my hand was shaking.
I want to be worthy of my sufferings, but I have no self-worth despite a sharp attempt at a positive self-awareness.
I was kicked a lot today, just like that poor frightened dog that I met at the shelter. Getting kicked should not diminish my value, but that is what I’ve witnessed, and my shoes were filled with the rotten innards, the distasteful, diseased cells of a madman.
I’m desperate to rise above this asinine victimhood, to have meaning in positive contribution to a good thing somewhere in my world, but I sit here without initiative, without the will to move.