my first folly was trying to understand. it came about in my seventeenth year, from a deep-seated need to pare down wildness into several tiny labelled boxes. i thought myself prepared; drawing the first answers only gave way to new ones.
every answer i found was thinly covered, so obvious i couldn’t understand why i hadn’t understood them to begin with – yet still obscure enough that i wanted to run, search out every meaning i could. sometimes i did, and it quickly became its own form of consumption.
in the eighteenth year, i stepped away for a while, thinking it wouldn’t create new chaos while i was gone. i was wrong – when i came back it was worse than i remembered, and i delved further, trying to understand.
folly, they all called it when i said what i was trying to do.
(i didn’t listen until it was too late)