How much labor does a pound of my flesh purchase? What is the cost of someone else's work to cover the price of my ill-invested sense of self?
I sit here silently, head in my hands, palms to temples. Eyes wide and concentrating on the formula in front of me. Made up of bits and pieces of effort, sacrifice and hopes.
I've always been awful at math more complicated than simple percentages, geometry and arithmetic. Mediocre at best.
I can clearly see the variables of blood, sweat and tears. The arcane and numeric symbols of someone else's care; of letting myself down; of trying to make my self worth add up to mean something.
I can't put a formula together. It doesn't make sense. I can't even arrange the various constants into a pattern that LOOKS accurate. It's all a giant mess of puzzle pieces that don't fit together. And it doesn't matter how long I stare at them, they won't assemble themselves.
So all that's left when everything is cancelled out against each other is the guess-and-check method of dissatisfaction. And praying to variability.
10:37 p.m. - 2014-11-25
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
My profile
Archives
Notes
Diaryland
Random
RSS
others:
As-I-know-it
Nicim
Breathe-Salt
Swordfern
Star-Brite
Swallowthkey
ATwoWayDream
HumHum
Secret-motel
AndWeBreathe
MovingSands
WeAteTheSea