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Shattered hearts club

Trauma sufferers know the desperation.  The feeling of utter death that repeats.  It can come out in back pain, in heart palpitations.  It can drive them to do stupid things that ruin them.  And ruins the trust with others. When they could least afford. Trauma sufferers know the numbness that ensues When, like a cloying baby, they reach out to others On a bus that's 200,000 times the size of them And they approach someone with sadness in their eyes And they get a massive quaking instead of the love That they sought. And they're frightening to others. And they're frightened of others. And the whole thing repeats And repeats.  And repeats.

The third alternative: "For Buk"

We are beset on all sides by the real and the counterfeit, and sometimes the counterfeit is more flashy and attractive than the real. 

Two paths come at us continually, inviting us one way - the right way - or the wrong way. These paths fly towards us at infinite speed. 

For instance; I was thinking of going against them all. 

If society doesn't count me in because of a loss of collagen.  .  . If I don't fit in in certain places like youth hostels because of the minor difference of a few years; then so be it. 

If I am less attractive than I was last year, and this is being held against me like some kind of accusation, then let them accuse me.

If they want for me to be a nothing to nobody; a human vacuum, much less an island, I will persist on in the opposite direction. For that is the right direction.

But then it came to me that life is only as kind as you make it. 

I appreciate the person who can upend my thought processes. That's why I like Buk. 

The boss has not paid my salary yet. 

The landlord will be banging at my door in any second. 

But I don't even care if they deport me. 




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