What I wanted to write about was the feeling of being ripped up, that pieces are being torn off me, that sometimes I believe I can actually feel my soul being just a little shredded. I tried to write that and it came out as some kind of poem, the kind that my friend once said "Oh, so this is what fire is for, to toss this into." Not so good. So now I'm just trying to write AROUND the idea for a bit, and what I wanted to get to from there was the thought that if all these pieces are being ripped off of me, maybe I can make something of it, some kind of papier mache creation, if the words of me are ripped off and then dipped in liquid and then reformed, wouldn't the new me be marvelous, the way I planned it, some kind of collage beauty that only showed the parts I wanted to show, something lovely. But right now it feels mostly like the tearing part, the rip of paper, the destruction, and I feel like the pieces are just blown into the wind before they can be reassembled into anything of meaning.