Henry Orekin can grow

-We wish we were free from our past, but our past is the dirt not the chains.-

Henry makes a doubtful attempt at honest surmise.

    A reminder left where once injury was. Damage. Wound. A gash left as on a stem or branch by a fallen leaf or harvested fruit. The past impels itself.

    He then conjured with transportive recall the moment when Ally had spiked her leering words 'remind you of anyone'. Her disdain could really stay with you after one like that. The plastic did little to conceal the condescension.. even contempt.

    (For he had seen Alison in plain execution of what she liked to name 'pity'.
And he knew, if just a little, about the complexity of the human heart.)

    Henry couldn't help but sense that it was probably his own fault.. at some previously guidable stage now past. And then with even contention, 'But she owns her share of contribution, as do I' to the dismantling of this bridge.  He would never know her again, not like once, never like before.  
The truth of complexity then set in, and with it the heavy bag of ambivalence.
     And his heart then raced.. desperate for the purity of renunciation.
     
'This ambivalence.. it's so heavy.'
'I might fly boundlessly off in any direction weren't it for such a weight.'
'Makes you think: "just go All In.. one way or the other and see if it's a wreck.
     Yeah. That's Got to be the way."'
All while knowing this method stands unrealistic in face of the world's impending bounds.

We wish we were free from our past,
but our past is the dirt not the chains.

     Still on preyed his contentious heart. 

    'Change.
  (God I'm dyin' here.. somethin's gotta change.)
     Then let it be Death of Self. Change.
     A total eclipse. Growth of a sort.. but by reduction.
     Complete réduction.. Unearthed.
     I want to be shot into space.'

And with that absurdity becoming aware of the hunger.. the likely suspect.  Too  obviously heedless an agenda.
 So now with more measure.

     'But that was all a dream.  This ship's got weight it just won't shed.'
     'So. what .'
     'So a gnarled reaching then. Out of clutching past i'll grow.'
     '.. goddamnit I will.'
   
  And finally, aware now of the reflection his constricted mind wrought out in body, tensity broke into something steady.

    Disconsolate but calm.

Shake this defeat at the hands of feeling you're pandering to the musings of morons, catering to irrational gomers, and reflexively judgmental, hypocritical, self-absorbed, near-psychotic monkey garbage. ..yourself amongst the ranks.

No one goes out of their way to say we aren't flawed.
Just suspiciously often that we are 'perfect'.
Don't feel used.  We all have flaws.  This venom seeps.  Don't let it in.

Know you can't keep on like this, it eats you from the inside.
     No more of this. Just put your damn hands down.
   The heart is a 'fist wrapped in blood'.
   A fist can relent, turn, and become an open palm.
   Severence, perseverance, each lost limb a tribute.
    A reminder.
It reminds me of a man so devoted to his purpose, he became it. .. or maybe it became him.
It reminds me of hope.

  Henry Orekin struggled on, a near proud trudge. All weighed down with eyes that habitually and too hungrily darted off onto some fixed skepticism.  Tired of the rain and leaning on relent.  Trying his damnedest to see through the eyes he would rather be.