I go through life unsure of my place. Unsure of what I’m to do. Unsure of who I’m to be.
I throw spaghetti on the wall and watch it slide down, hitting the floor in a pile. Sometimes a piece catches on the drywall texture. And then it, too, slithers down.
I do this again and again.
This is not really how it is, I suppose, but it’s how I see it sometimes. Or, today.
I pick up that spaghetti and peer into the mess. Slimy, old, decaying. A tangled web of starch, worn out like the hand that's thrown it.
I turn, I prep. Like a basketball player shooting a free throw. Mental pep talk. Bows to God.
Calculating and aiming, I look over at the black oval container. The graveyard of yesterday's discards.
Into the trash.