Pisaries Creator

In my tiredness of being, here I was, big old me, in my little corner of the world. Actually, I’m not that big, I’m far from it, but I like to think of myself as big, which is very different from fat, because my shriveled ego needs a boost. All the kinds of weight on my shoulders seems to be getting heavier and heavier. This reality has become clearer to me by the seconds ticking one after the other on my watch. Where my actual heart resides is unknown and how many beats my heart executes to show it’s still alive is also unknown. They, that unnamable group of people, forcibly took my heart away from me long ago. I fought to get my heart back during the first year of its absence in any way possible through sloppily thought-out plans and idealistic plans riddled with fantasy. The second year, there was less well-thought-out plans, and more a brand of a newfound acceptance of never getting my heart back. The third and fourth year started and ended. The fifth year led to my tenth year of not having a heart, but it beat somewhere, for I was still alive. I argue I barely fit into the category of being considered alive because my face was gaunt, and my eyes were drooping like a dog’s ears. The don’t know where I will step next and how deep my shoeprints will leave marks into the mud. It’s just me, here, and if you know what’s in store for me, I don’t want to know.