he has

a strange life. or many lives. and so it's unpleasant, sometimes, to remember. especially the pretty things. even pretty scenes are painted with a hungry nostalgia, tainted with pangs. of remorse, of regret.

his past looks like a painting streaked with too many contradicting colors. pockets of loveliness and compromise and growth are visible from up close. but if you step back, it's reminiscent of a three-year old's ball of playdoh. she didn't understand what you meant when you said, "Don't mix!" as you left the table. she simply saw the brilliance in each pot, the potential in every texture, and loved the feel of doh --squish-- dohing together.

in the end, it's quite ugly. mildewy brown. putrid. turned stale and tough from overuse. so then, the child pushes away and slides beneath the table where she can pinch lint off the carpet and arrange it in star and flower shapes. the playdoh is left on the shelf to harden, cracked and dry. shapeless and unloved.

forgotten,
forgiven,
spoiled.