of quiet drives over the country side for running errands and completing tasks,
of puzzled looks conveyed to mask the truth,
of blatant and beautiful deprecating remarks made at every whim,
of presents given early out of impatience of both the giver and receiver,
of walking and talking alone
of childish impossible projects and blanket forts and playhouses,
of denial and acceptance from lack of a better reason,
of drugs and alcohol,
of anger,
of making a fool out of myself time after time [after time…],
of depression and crutches and dishonesty,
of popsicles and late night television,
it’s all come down to this.
this little point. right There.
i can’t help but look at it.
is this not just a fucking summation of my entire life thus far?
or am i putting too much significance on one sheet of paper?
