Nothing

I wonder when it was that my perception became so skewed, when my wisdom went so awry, that I thought nothing was all I deserved.

I cannot pinpoint it exactly, but since then, whenever it was, nothing is what I have received. It is only now, when I seem to have woken up, so much so that I am perpetually awake, perpetually aware, that I realise I deserve something, something, at least that.

There was turbulence, for a while. I deal rather well with turbulence. Sometimes I even think I like it; perhaps it's something to do with adrenaline rushing through my veins and into my brain and out through wide eyes. Or perhaps it is to do with being needed. Perhaps it takes the attention away from me.

All these things and more, probably.

I don't mind so much, when things smash. I let the pain of them slice into me; it lets me know I am alive. I can even pick up the pieces, secure the stronghold, batten down the hatches and so on, despite being bloodied and bruised and blinded by the crash. Still, I sweep into neat, obsessively neat, piles, the remnants of what has been borken.

It's the putting back together that I cannot do. I have no glue. Instead, I have shaking hands.

And these are the times when I wonder if nothing is not merely what I get, but if nothing is what I am.