I found the solitude hidden in my bedroom

A gift, left there by my folly

Or maybe by my inadequacy.

While with it I felt a great discomfort

Which seemed unlike me.

The solitude is reflective and sharp

With it I divide myself into honest, but unequal, parts

Not all of them work.

We play a game together

The game is complicated, and played mostly with words

Some of the parts are very bad at the game

Others cheat

Others mourn the games existence

Or having to share the space with so many parts.

The best parts either care greatly about the game

And strive to play fair

Or they beg for something more important to do

But play it all the same.

The game is difficult and mostly pointless

With such inconsistent players

But at least it is long.