I just skipped a class. I honestly forgot to go to my recitation. I am undaunted by repercussions on the matter, however, for I am still breathing and my freedom as an individual is still secure.
I am however most unnerved, because I thought I could handle it all, that I could stare in the face of utter chaos, the horrific visage of countless heaps of task, and prevail above it all, overcome it and surmount with ardor, though maybe not ease. I wish to be proud of my accomplishing that at least.
I have dropped the ball, as it were, and it is much too difficult of pick up this shattered heap of glass and have it resemble itself as it should, or function as it ought. I’m barely holding them all together, and as I look they continue to cut my thin fingers through my white-knuckled grasp; as I stare I wonder if this pain will ever end, for this disjointed object I am compelled to uphold, for it is my life and all that it need one day be.
This struggle is a constant one, a to-do that’s never checked off the list, and as I sit here writing with a bloodied aching hand, I now have pieced together the pieces all around. With enough elbow grease, and sweat of a candid brow, that mercurial sphere will stay its shape and life will follow in its incessant cadence. The hurdles may change from day to day, and the ball may drop again as it may, but mending it again can be done. That constant struggle is what life is made of.
