Pride is something that isn’t given up easily.
Pride is something of a trophy.
Pride can put you in a bad place.
I am at an impasse. I have put myself there.
I have so may hopes and dreams. I have ideas of how to be the handyman of a dilapidated home. I have plans on how to repair the damage done.
No one has plans for the handyman; not now, not when he finishes. But at this moment, the handyman has grown weary. The handyman is tired and aches. The handyman seeks panacea.
The handyman continues; building and repairing. The handyman knows a job well done is never spoken of. But a job poorly executed will be the talk of the town for centuries.
The handymen of old, they had a breaking point. The handymen of old, they met with a young demise. The handymen of old rarely saw the fruits of their labor. Victims of their trade; poor souls.
There is a handyman; tradesman if you will, that curates the future for us all. It is a shared responsibility. There are some; handymen, I mean, that were never up to par. There were many that were quick to pass the duties that were their own.
A good handyman is one that is never in search of work; right? If you are good at what you do, the work comes to you.
The work has come, the work never seems to stop. The handyman is expected to take on all tasks without signs of fatigue.
I’m fucking tired. I wed and became the mother of two children. Both; inept, unwilling, unfruitful and exhausting.
I have become the product of my own choices.
Those that were to curate, care for, enrich: failed.
Failed, left it for the next unsuspecting human (handyman) to pick it up. They failed. They failed and yet, judge. They judge.
I don’t even know where do to draw the line before the ocean wipes it all away. Again.
Where is the line? When is it enough? Why is it so difficult to sever dead-weight?