card house.

I can’t go forward with my own cards stacked against me. Even if I built the damn house.

So I plow through it. The foundation under is a mirage. I’m running toward a fantasy built out of clouds and ice cream and sex. Real building feels foreign to me. A last life. A lost language. I rarely settle now. Its almost like I’m not sure how to.

Initially I survived on whims, reaching for hands in the dark.

Now, there is no way back, except in the narrative form. 
It’s one of the only ways I know how to prove my existence and I’m questioning the importance of that lately.

The fog is no longer my life. But every day its a climb. 

Some days the climb is rewarding. Some days when I’ve put in the work it’s easy. Other days it’s life shattering. Some break me.