MAN OF MARBLES
Everywhere I look, my thoughts lead me to kernels of bitterness.
Compressed and polished smooth by time, these baubles of resentment float prolifically in my consciousness.
"Not the worst manager, just a bad one, I REMEMBER all your little lies and deflections..."
"Why couldn't anyone have reached out to me as a child, it's not like I WANTED to be a bastion of anti-mastery..."
"Why couldn't she have loved me like she claimed she did... instead she CHOSE to act out of her personal sense of pain..."
Playing marbles with my memories, I act out of my personal sense of pain too.
Wallow in it.
Made dense, hard, and spherical through use, these marbles of madness have become almost impossible to grind to dust.
Making them small and round has made them manageable... but also nigh invulnerable to eradication.
No game I play does more than move them around or shoot them out of sight, but these pains I covet always come back around.
If you shook me hard enough, you would probably hear them clacking around.
I feel that I would give almost anything to get rid of them, yet I cling to them like sacred treasures, just as I did with real marbles as a boy.
Here's to the cat's eye, may it motivate me to go searching for gratitude instead.