Nothing about my uneasiness was easy,
but then again,
that had always been the point,
and I was always trying to deconstruct these words,
in hopes of writing better ones,
like we all do when we hope,
when we are still in that part of life where we have not resigned ourselves to the art of being derivative,
we have no hindsight,
and we fear the days that rear view mirrors will grow like rabid vines out of our peripheral vision,
and we will own them,
just as we do our flaws,
our sickness,
our inevitable date with death,
and all the things that give us our spots as it were,
but I liked to be put out,
I think,
the way we all need pain every now and then,
just to know we are still living in the now and the then,
tangibility,
maybe it only came down to that,
nothing more,
and certainly nothing less
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