Sometimes I cannot imagine how I came to be here. I have embodied failure as a way of life. I wake in the morning breathing breath composed purely of fear. I eat my breakfast thoughtlessly taking great mouthfuls of a scone lathered with apathy. I step out of the house clothed in a mantle knit of despair. Some days I do not step from the house at all. I simply sit, waiting apprehensively, for nothing. Occasionally, I wake enough to wonder where she has gone, the self that was. I miss her terribly and worry at a particular thought as though it were a bone— I worry that she never existed at all. I am a figment of my own diseased imagination. Not the me that is now. Who would think to make up such a tepid, wretched creature? No, the me that was. To think that my hand once made art and I judged it beautiful and rejoiced in creation, that my head once held dreams (not just nightmares, dreams!) and thought them precious, that my body once felt almost as though it belonged to me, that my self lived, and thought, and ate a breakfast with fear as only a background noise (most of the time), and not a master. To think. Would that I could resurrect that self. I would have her back, faults and all. To think, she thought she was a muddle then, she should see the debacle that would crawl forth. She may have doubted her worth, but she knew she had it. I miss her so, silly thing.