amazing how that dead limb continues to scratch. I've come so far, only to find it caught firmly on my leg, pulling at me with every step. eventually I'll realize the infection has cut too deep, and it's simply too late.
I ran so hard today, but it's never quite good enough. For a person rooted in self hatred, every mirror shatters the illusion of progress, the glamor of future peacefulness, the mirage of a happy ending.
I'm sore.. sick and tired of the routine of sameness. Squandering myself on mundanity, relinquishing control to a furtive, languid deity. The workplace. Like so many cogs have slipped and caught in the inevitable machine of mediocrity, and I'm no better.
I could have been a better husband. Could still be a better father, a better man. Instead, I'll wish and dream and glance at those smiling female faces like I'm seeing them through glass at a museum: observing, documenting, and ultimately moving to the next display.
They won't wait forever. But I will.
A failure.
