I am sitting cross-legged on top of a toilet, praying that I don’t fall in, like mother always asked about. There’s a melody of faucets dripping, doors creaking, and voices echoing.
I am a part of this world.
The writings of others have been scribbled onto this faux marble box.
Two are of interest:

“AND IN THE END THE LOVE YOU MAKE
IS EQUAL TO THE LOVE YOU TAKE”

And,

“I <3 my Dick ?”

I want to call life a miraculous thing that’s full of love and joy and hope for a happy future, but I can’t.
Because even as I write, there’s a heaviness to my chest that has only existed as I’ve grown up. And I know I have to accept that except for those fantastic moments of pure elation, my chest, my heart, will have some form of poundage.
But that’s what makes happiness so damn addictive. It’s the contrasting extremes that keep me laughing, keep me hoping, keep me smoking.
It’s endearing to me that the young never truly learn. We all want to change things. We all want to know who we are. We all thing we know everything. We sit on the shoulders of giants, and for myself, I find the perch comfortable.
My head has blisters, because emotions are hot.
I don’t think those blisters will heal. I’ve got a complicated network of scars and scalding puss that map out the world as I see it. I love them because they’re mine, and I love the world because it’s mine as well.
This stall seems like the lowest place to be. The dirt and grime beneath my feet will take years to scrub out. It’s a good thing I’m looking up.

-A denizen of Earth