Counting.

It’s hard not to hate. People, things, institutions, when they break your spirit and take pleasure in watching you bleed. Hate is the only feeling that makes sense. But I know what hate does to a man. Tears him apart, turns him into something he’s not. Something he promised himself he’d never become. That’s what I need to tell you. To let you know how hard I’m trying not to cave under the weight of all the awful things I feel in my heart.

Sometimes my life feels like a deadly balancing act. What I feel slamming up against what I should do. Implusive reactions racing to solutions miles ahead of my brain. When I look at my day, I realize that most of it was spent cleaning up the damage of the day before. In that life I have no future. All I have is distraction and remorse.

I buried my best friend three days ago. As cliche as this sounds, I left a part of me in that box. A part I barely knew. A part I’ll never see again.

Every day is a new box boys. You open it, you take a look at what’s inside. You’re the one who determines if it’s a gift or a coffin.