October 3rd, Year of the Moon

There is the heart that you are born with, which is replaced by the heart that you make. I have aimed irresponsibly, in my attempt to shoot at conflicting opinions. I run from beasts, in nightmares. I run from beasts, when I am awake.

I am not going to say that my Mexican shoes should have pointed forward. No one knows how I have struggled to make sense. And I have a teddy bear, you see. It had ten names, and now it has none. It sits in neglect, but I love it in my own way. Like me, it lost its eyes long ago, in some war that was important at the time, but changed nothing.

If I am a reflection of all that has ever existed, why am I not a pleasure to look upon? Why is every minute with me so heavy?

Once, I did something brave. Once, I did aim with precision at a specific target. Down went my panic disorder. It was impossible to know how well it had served me, until I felt its absolute and deafening absence. With the world coming in clearly, I understood the development and necessity of what seemed to harm me, but was actually protecting me. It shielded me from a reality that was much more difficult to process than a rapid heartbeat, or shaking hands, or a series of funny thoughts.

Once, I did something stupid.

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October 3rd, Year of the Moon

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