I find myself mired in the vastness of my own ignorance. I have run so far from responsibility that I no longer know where to turn. I am on a marked path, defined primarily by the gray hue of what remains of me. I could try to gather these fragments, but would it even make a difference? Looking back toward the horizon, at my own back, once scorched by a sun that no longer burns, I see and feel only regrets, which I know will only begin to heal under the light of the moon. The cycles of days pass, but the cycles of routine remain. What a wretched grace life is, isn't it? I know I care too much, but why was the gift of protection bestowed upon someone so defenseless? If I were a blade instead of a shield forged from feverish thoughts that are not even my own, perhaps things would be easier. I feel like I'm slowly falling apart, even more than I already am, but what can I do besides continue on with another day? —Mv