I have problems, sometimes. It’s true that I can have blaring faults. They may creep into my sight and cloud my vision. They might bind my lips into a horizontal encasement. And when I don’t tend to my thoughts they grow sharp edges and weave into one another and keep the ray of light at my core from shining through. I am silent, I am sad, I am mourning my own death. I am always going back to transparency. I live in cycles. A good part of me is born and dies minutes later. I am always dying, I am always reborn, I am always holding on to what was. I am hurt, my soul bleeds. Something isn’t right. I am incongruous. It’s my fault. I need help.