I want to shake the improbability of human purpose and find deep down somewhere, scattered in the stars or the vast universe- a reason. 

I long to be good at something, to have my hands move clay the way the craftsman does, birthing from formless mud a piece of use, a work of art.

I long to wake up and greet the sunshine with ease, in some reality where my heart does not shudder in dread when consciousness ends its sleepy hiatus and loops back around.

I long to put foot to ground and run, trace the edges of a thousand clustered forests, jump headfirst off the highest mountains, submerge my parched soul beneath the deep and emerge replenished,  having learned some wondrous secret just below the horizon. 

But these are irrational, foolish, stupid, pathetic desires, as naive as any child's.

I may never find it- the reason. 

The world is hollow. 

It has swallowed my innocence whole and left in its place the great empty. 

And though I have taught myself the lesson over and over and over again, trapped in a listless merry-go-round, my being cannot help but be stubborn. 

She insists on a submerging her fingers into the chest of hope, grabbing onto its ribs and clinging on for dear life while it drags her through the mud. 

-crumbling cookie