When you spend your life
juggling between paper plates and plastic cups,
in a world where disposing is easier than preserving,
is permanence really a gift or a curse instead?

I spend most days building homes.
I could call myself an opportunist,
because I spend my days looking for broken walls to rebuild
in a community striving towards a boundless harmony.

My life, too, is a series of fragmented images,
loosely cemented together to form a structure
too pitiful to call home,
which is ironic, isn’t it?
Spending your entire life building homes
only to come home to one far too splintered to fall back together.

But that’s the beauty of life,
it lets you take things one brick at a time,
which is to say,
you could make cement in amounts that fill up teacups
to build a structure that shapes up to feel like home,
and somehow manage to construct a roof to fall asleep under,
a shelter to hold out the storm,
a space to raise a family
more precious than these building block hands will ever know.


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