New things to come.

I hold a ridged square block, a play piece from childhood. It’s no longer shiny and red, as its edges and corners have been chipped and worn. Integrity has been lost in the process.

There is a triangle hole.

I can no longer force this block. I grow weary. It has compromised the hole and block. Wooden bits freckle my shoes.

Like a middle train cart, you sit between a mirror and an ideal. Wouldn’t it be easier to stop chasing and be chased?

I’m stopping. My legs are tired. New things to come.