Got a Thought

Sometimes, the pain of living blurs the line between where I begin and where the world ends. 


I try to explain this to myself, but I don’t listen. Maybe I can’t. It sounds strange, but if you’ve ever tried to do the same thing more than once—hoping, praying, that this time it might end differently—you might understand.

I keep telling myself I know who I am, that the pain will pass. But what if it doesn’t?
What if the world around me shifts into something I no longer recognize?


Everything feels vague, untethered. I just want time to stop—just for a moment—so my mind can catch up.


Imagine it’s 1970. You wake up one morning and your name is Harry Buttwaffle. You’re a used car salesman.
You go to work and sell a car with 70,000 miles on the odometer to a young couple—a toddler clinging to one leg, and another baby on the way.
You know the truth: the car has over 500,000 miles and is barely holding together.
Still, they hand over their last $2,000 as a down payment. Money meant for food. For diapers. For survival.
They look at you with promise in their eyes. With hope. With trust.

And you feel nothing.

No shame.
No guilt.
Because they are not you. You’ll never see them again. And if you do—so what?

That’s how I feel.

I’m the family.
I’m the one handing over my trust.
And what I got in return is a lie on wheels.
The trust I once had—in the system, in the people meant to protect me—is shattered.
Now, every time I look into the mirror, all I see are splinters.

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