Broken, useless things. A pipe bursts in the garage. A framed photo arrives from France in pieces. I am held responsible for everything, it seems. I struggle uselessly against despair and think of Rimbaud, whose poetry I dislike.
“Life is the farce which everyone has to perform.”
“But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.”
“I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am there.”
I pull these quotations from the internet. They are broken as well.
Fragments. Sometimes that is what we have and what we must use to make it whole again.
The bitter struggle back to happiness.
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