trying to organize scraps. trying to find my questions. deciding what it means if i write and never revisit. is this okay? am i okay? i found some things i hadn't looked at in a while. in the work break room all cabinets close and drawers shut anonymously, no handles, no labels. you always have to open to know where to look. i make do but i know it takes extra cognitive effort, i know i'd prefer to see "the mess". i'm surrounded by piles and doing nothing about them. doing nothing is a form of doing something, there's always something happening. i maintain my contradictions in order to keep still. the sun rises in the spring. earlier and sets later. i pathologize normal human feeling into absolute statements about myself. shame is pride's cloak. i could live and die this way.