There is always a reason cry, but most if the time we are not in the mood. When I’m not crying, I’m furious. Regret or rage; these are the defaults.
I need to be distracted.
I was great. I don’t mean good, but rather, expansive. I was broad scoped and wide minded, but then I fucked myself. I broke myself. I died years ago. I left a shell. A husk of pity, remorse, rage, and I am left smoldering in ash, reminiscent of, but never again as I was.
I get to imagine, but never to feel… and even these images are fuzzed, as my grand machine sputters and falters at the most basic of tasks; damaged, abused, torn, fucked…
There is nothing left