I am an inevitable failure. Biding my days with games and jest, hiding behind a fa├žade I hope will someday become transparent, I feel my insides claw at the shell of a person I have become. As if my very core despises this body I have sculpted into an admirable proportion, both physically and emotionally. I have lost my wonder along the way, forgotten why I started on this path that unraveled before me.

I too, have unraveled. My friends do not see it, nor does my betrothed, but I feel it in every fiber of muscle within me. I am a blanket whose finely woven cloth at some point began to fray. At first it did not falter me, for I was worn already and perhaps, I mused, better suited as a scarf. In the swiftness that life took me, I became myself neither a blanket nor a scarf, but instead a tiny square of cloth, fragile against the wind that threatened to stretch me out of existence. Those gusts would soon succeed.

Now, I am each of the single threads that scattered once the stitching snapped. My spirit bobs between my discarded fragments, forever dodging acceptance. Perhaps if I were willing, I would go on a quest to reclaim myself, to find each distant hair of cloth and braid them back together.

Alas, I am too tired.