Screwed

I like repairing broken things. But you can only drive so many screws into a board before it’s no good. Even density, you see, grows these twisted fibers. Like hair. Matted and dreaded and locked into elongated tension upward. Hammers and nails are kind of caustic measures actually. Not all wood can take that sort of abuse just to be affixed to a particular use. Also, I’ve split oak rails that bent nails no kidding by the dozen before I ever successfully drove one home. Not all wood is the same, because not all trees are. Not all life is. We’re all patched together popsicle sticks and hot glue just praying the wind doesn’t pick up again. Tin cans and pie pans. We’re scarecrow people. Patched and chicken pecked and weather bitten. Someone donated those mittens. Another will make these sheep into mutton. A different person will sew back on buttons to fix clothes that will never again be worn by the living.

I like repairing broken things. I’d say that just about puts me in heaven. Such is the way of the wilted world we live in. With the right perspective, and I mean true right, not feels right, not might be. But a truly righteous perspective, we are in heaven. Because the very nature of such a thing would mean some concept of balance. A counter. An experience we all encounter. Hell. Right here asking heaven for its hand in marriage. We don’t know what we want. There’s no heaven or hell outside of one’s dependence on the other. And I want nothing to do with either.

I like repairing broken things. So I’m screwed.

Fixed.
Exactly where I belong.

Only where I am needed.

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