we cannot be redeemed, i cannot be redeemed, it’s a lost effort, it’s pointless. we are not coins, we cannot be traded. the past cannot be traded, it cannot be repurposed, a battered piece of silver leveraged for something plushy, shiny or new. it is obscene archeology. we dig up bones, we dig up dirt, pressure under the finger nails, grit between the folds, the deeper we go, the more uncomfortable we become.

we cannot be forgiven, i cannot ask for forgiveness, it’s impossible. to ask the you who you are today for sins committed by who i once was. to solicit the ghost of you, the corpse of who you once was. and what if you are truly gone? what if you are buried, or far off, in another world, a better place? who am i, suddenly awake, hat in hand, to visit your door step and rip open that wound, scarred over and faded.

we can only ask for grace, i can only seek grace. inward spiral. to turn within, to suffer in silence, to come out the other side. to measure the effort, the lack of effort, to apply extraordinary effort, to be relentless in acceptance: this is who you are. you are flawed. you are vicious. you are cruel. you are human. you are capable of more. you are capable of love. you are capable of kindness. you have yet to find out what you truly are.