I once traversed the valley of scissors, littered with the debris of my existence. The nostalgia was a necessary evil my friends or so a poet once told me. If I had known what I now know I would of taken my time, even discarded it’s binds and let the broken glass bury in my heels. What was to follow was as daunting as drowning and shiny and real like blood in an alleyway. It is in this maze I now find myself, wishing for a labyrinth with no blueprint for a future and now only a bag of embers for my past. And I feel conflicted for every sharp corner that grazes, and every puncture wound I’ve nursed are markers of living, enduring and dreaming. I am truly lost and struggle onward with ink under my skin and a heart forged of my mothers lullabies, and I tell myself riddles of love to fuel my feeble effort at existence.