stacking your own deck

The tower of cards is collapsed. I see myself smiling in the rubble. Hearts and spades at my sides.

I pick through the debris around me. All that I have been or meant to be made of, now disconnected. One slip sitting next to me catches my eye, and I raise it to catch the sunlight. Patience: enjoying the here and the now, and not mourning what you miss. Time so often taunts me with its passing. When did an afternoon with a book become boring? and when did boring become evil? In the paper pieces I see too many tiers of over-exertion and disenchantment. This is not all me; so much is just faces and numbers. Now is another opportunity to replace my priorities. I know the wind will blow again of change and test me to trust in who I am. I reach for more building material: The folly of being everyone's friend. The fear for fitting in. The jealously and comfort of following in someone's footsteps. This is not my card.