I'll carry you.

I feel like I should change my name to Atlas. Lately it seems like I'm always carrying something. Guilt, remorse, anger, excitement. Holding stuff up.

There is literally always a monkey on my back.

Along with that, I feel like I'm a puppeteer, going along with the story, making it up as I go but never letting on to other people that I have absolutely no clue what the fuck I'm doing.

When I finally get to go to sleep at night I mostly lay there and think of all the things I did or said that day and wonder if anyone has caught on yet. If my kids are starting to get scared that they've been strung along this whole time. My filter between my brain and my mouth is starting to get clogged with time and good intentions and not work so well. Saying what I mean and having it come out right is starting to get harder and harder.

The only thing that seems to work right is the filter between my brain and my fingers. It works more like a sieve, filtering things into individual pieces so I can sort them in the proper order. It's pretty pixelated; almost like a shittier version of Minecraft (is that possible?), but it works.

The good thing about being the proverbial Atlas is that he will never cease to exist or stop doing his job. He's just out there floating in the universe, unreachable.