I've single-handedly killed nearly everything good in my life. What remains are the people. What is dead are the relationships. What remains are the memories. What's dead are the good feelings associated with their recollection. I'm self-destructive, self-possessed in my selfishness. I build bridges to burn them, write pages to see them engulfed in flames. I'm obsessed with the idea of a fresh start, perhaps because I perceive that I need one so often.

Is there hope for this reckless mind, for this patchwork heart? I press on in the hope I'll see a better tomorrow; sometimes I don't see the point.

I make eye contact and receive a nod. I just look away. They won't like me anyway. I wouldn't be able to trust a word they say. In isolation I find rest, in isolation I'm put to the test. Will I ever venture out there again? Seems safest right here, I'm happy right here. But the moment passes, and suddenly I'm acutely aware of being alone.

I step out, only to retreat.

I step out again, and push on. Hoping to find what I seek.