not really a poem
random thoughts throughout the night.
I lived under a facade of my own making
lived there my whole life.
Through white-knuckled willpower, I had, for the most part, fashioned a world where the incongruous coexisted and life “worked.”
Until it didn’t.
I so completely relate to this.
And this is enough.
Today I live and stand in my own story
validated by the air I breathe.
See “The Messenger Project” for some context on this entry
defying atrophy 