If you could tell the world one thing, it would be that you are heartsore, yes, but also thrumming to your own pulse. Life is wicked and delicious, tearing you down and raising you at once. You are exhausted by the hills and valleys of it, but you are also grateful because each day—each breath—is a chance whatever shit you’re in might get better. That one day your shoe will be scraped clean and not stink up your car like the skunk you ran over last May.
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You can’t know how right you are, but you suspect. Suspicion is hope in camouflage. So you approach with stealth this possibility of a shit-free future. You sniff cautiously. You take in the aroma of laundry detergent and freshening sprays and for a minute you are fooled, until you realize the stink is present and very much alive despite its disguise.
You break free from hope and wind your way down the mountain you climbed to reach this high. The valley is as you recall: rotting with death. You sway against the odor, heartsore and humbled. Curiosity is the currency of despair. So you find the stream. You lie down in it. You let the water wash over you until your brain feels squeaky clean. You look again at the valley. It is lush and verdant. You like this view. You choose this view. You do not question it.
