I desperately tried to hold onto whatever real parts were left of my immeasurably flawed

existence. I tried to make the most out of the fleeting small talks, petty laughs, and frivolous hugs
that carved the unclear passage of my life. Every obscure thought involving cancellation was my
secret godsend I never intimately aroused to. I can name all the things I am not: I am not bright, I
am not neat, I am not principled. I am not all there. I am not as truthful as I’d like to be, or as
creative as I’d envisioned. I think I am friendly, at least shallowly enough- I hope I am
approachable.

For one day, I’d like to exist out of my mind and trail the spring flowers as they make room for
the sun. I’d like to bake a cake by myself and let my arms wave off the defect of its crisp uncake-
like edges and sickening distaste. I’m a greedy little being; I’ve always wanted more, and I’ll
never have enough, but I think my cupid longing for life is justified by my lack of it. It isn’t right
by me to call myself human. How dare I declare myself morally just? I am the worst; I am
corrupt, but also, I am nothing at all. I often wonder if there’s any life left for me, if there are any
outsets available, could I even maturely navigate it if there were? Will I forever be subtracted by
my scholarly perversion? Second chances are inherently apathetic. I have wanted to change
forever. I wish to be so many things, but all-encompassing, I wish to be alive.