Wheelbarrow

You bathe yourself in the dim glow of all that self regard. When you’re in a sea of people I see it get brighter as you look around gratuitously. You’re lonelier than most because you’ve built your triumphs on phantom wings that are illusive and irrelevant. Are they even real? You are at your core fundamentally selfish, unable to correlate affection with some form of generosity. It’s as if despite your short life you’ve somehow concluded that you stand in the middle of everything that’s happened to you. You remain unaffected by the love of others because that jaded glow obscures your line of vision.

Yet such is the life you and I lead, bound by the inevitability of family ties and the spotty encouragement that accompanies it. We are nothing if not human. How could I fault you for this?

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