Humanity is the cruel joke of being both
the architect and the avalanche.

Some days I stack myself neatly,
every thought in its row,
breathing like I understand control.

Other days I spill-
raw,
loud,
unfixable.

Am I worth that mess?
Maybe worthiness isn't the point.
Maybe the paradox is the price
and existing at all is the answer.

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Valnuary, in the year 990 AF.