as far as I’ve come in the last few years, I can still feel the yearning out of how little of my life I’ve been able to really live, for lack of money, of purpose, of anything approaching personal satisfaction. and how many beautiful things I’ve dismantled or drifted away from because at root I could never be satisfied with — never even be myself. Trained and broken on the shores of hope, never dry, always shivering and looking for shelter from both moon and sun. Always wishing. Then I stopped wishing. And I had the desperation to hope again, but to include effort, excruciating effort because I had every reason to expect I’d fail again. That getting in the robot could just as easily end the world.

How many of us live this way?

I’ve started a new job, one that I hope will be my job, one I can grow into and bloom within. I’m a ragged houseplant re-potted once again. It’s strange to feel like there might be room here. But I’m nowhere near healed from everything I’ve endured as well as I could. And I’m not sure when or whether I’ll really be able to feel like I’m living, rather than… whatever this has been.