The stones of my regrets and troubles pave my way forward from a past some don't see as worth holding onto. How I lay them to rest is to personal taste and utility. It is a treacherous path of hazards and stumbles. It is me.

I do not ask for a grand audience hall in which to portray a scene of misbegotten woe. No celestial escort or clarion chorus of sympathetic masses tenderly accompanying my progress through another traveler's shining patch of momentary bliss.

My dim shadow that keeps the thoughts in solitude is not a jealous fiend looking to take from other's sources. He is for me to argue with and declaim against in the dappled shade of despondence. For another to see a partial sum of the wounds another has born in body and soul and judge them unnecessary. How cursed they are with the unknown absence of empathy.

To the friend that holds my hand, to the kind words caressed against a bruised esteem, to the chosen family that stands against the onrushing self-doubt in a furious cry of negation that it is not lost. To you, I give thanks

To the rest.

Just quit kicking me in the dick about how I deal with my shit if I'm still moving forward. I know when to rub dirt in it and keep on keeping on and when to stop for a while.