Undefined.


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{Image: Max Newhall // Unsplash}

The good news is that shopping and soap operas no longer hold any appeal.

Nor does day-drinking.

I’ve used them all up, all the vices, the pointless distractions.

I wake in the mornings with piles of ideas: things to do today.

I yearn for connection, variety, purpose, intimacy.

But I know damn well that these things are for offering, not taking.

In the past, I think I’ve taken them more than I’ve offered.

Then I think of all the bridges I’ve burned, the distance created, however unofficial.

And my heart beats the same old refrain: my-fault, my-fault.

Do you love me? Did you ever?¬†These questions don’t even matter anymore.

This is irrelevant.

I’m the one that left, and without you as some sort of anchor, some conduit to feelings, even unhealthy ones, I float perilously, moment-to-moment, grasping at the chasm of each day, delightfully and horribly undefined.

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