I was thinking about that dream again—
the one where winter swallows everything,
and I just sort of…
sit down in it.
Not dying, not fighting,
just letting the cold explain
what quiet feels like.
It’s strange how peaceful it pretends to be
when you’re tired enough.
But I’m not trying to go anywhere.
I keep telling myself that.
So I treat it like background noise—
like the static after a movie ends
and you’re still waiting
for a scene they never filmed.
I wait anyway.
Guess that’s a habit.
Lately the days feel like rewrites—
plot points cut,
characters missing,
whole arcs abandoned
without a note left behind.
I keep looking around
for a version of me
that didn’t fall through the cracks.
Haven’t found him yet.
It’s funny how disappointment
stops feeling dramatic
after a while.
You just fold it,
put it in your pocket,
carry it like loose change.
Still, every morning
I wake up like someone
who believes in something.
I don’t know what.
But it’s there—
thin, stubborn.
I call it hope
because I don’t have a better word.
“Champion of Fools”
sounds about right.
Today I watched the snow pile up
on the porch railing.
Didn’t feel symbolic,
just cold,
just winter doing what winter does.
And I stood there thinking,
*maybe things shift eventually,*
even if they shift slow,
even if the change is too small
to brag about.
If the storm ever takes me,
it won’t be some poetic ending.
Just weather.
Just a tired person
caught in the wrong moment.
But tonight I’ll stay inside,
wrap myself in whatever warmth I’ve got,
and keep waiting to see
what the next scene looks like—
if there even is one.
And somehow,
I’m still showing up.
Still rooting for a plot
that refuses to explain itself.
Still wearing that stupid title—
Champion of Fools—
because no one else bothered
to claim it.
extra_unbearable
