Again and again. On and on.

I love starting with a question.

What hurts?

You don’t know the depth of your selfishness till the wounded lies dead, eyes rolled back, before you. And to know that, cocooned in your ego, the world is made a white expense by the yarns spun by you. Yet you’re really sitting in the middle of mudslides, also of your making, by your hands, at your behest, with glee, with knowing, without.

What gives?

When the tears fall, who was the grief meant for? Who do you feel guilty towards? How sorry are you? Would you ever? Would you never? And then the puzzle unravels – to a naked you – always you.

Do you feel as if, should time reverse, you’d make up for some wrongdoing or error, some ever-present vanity? Why, yes! And you shiver, stand corrected. You make amends, plain words rapidly forming, overcompensating. The sorrow washes over you and calms you as it pass, fading to a shadow of a memory.

And then what happens?

You rinse and repeat.