Sometimes it feels like the only way anything makes sense, the only place I make any sense; the only feeling of contentment and accomplishment I can find is right here, among the old and new, and shiny and rusted and bent tools. Some belonged to my father and some belonged to his father.
I’ve abandoned them more than once to pursue another life, a cleaner less rusted and bent and broken life. I locked them away in boxes and chests knowing I’d never return. My grand plan to rise above the tools and things that needed to be un-fucked-up and fixed.
But, they always came with me, my tools. Maybe I knew despite high aspirations and dreams of a life with clean fingernails and cut and scab free hands that the only reality to me and about me is right here in the dirt and the grease and the wrenches and welding rods and hammers.
On reflection, it ain’t such a bad life. It grimy, sweaty and balls-freezing cold sometimes, and bloody and exasperating and exhausting but there ain’t no lie in it. Not a one.