Life, I’ve come to realise is mostly a cobbled-together affair. There is nothing clean, neat or orderly about it. Ah, we make grand plans when we are younger, imagining that everything will be seamless and smooth and oh, so beautiful. It is not, and can never be so. We are messy beings, internally and externally and we encounter others who are equally so. It makes me sad. I cannot make it all better. I cannot solve things. I cannot make peace with her, or with her or her, or indeed, him. I don’t have any answers just this day to day trying, of picking up dust and fluff and trying to make it all pristine. He is the only thing that makes sense, that sometimes can be pure beauty to me. The rest makes me want to weep. I don’t understand why there has to be so much pain, so much despair, so much conflict. Do we all carry the germs of it all inside and the outer world is just a reflection of that inner fighting? I don’t know. I know less and less. We do what we can, fail and then fail better.
Forgive us for we know not what we do.
