Rusty Tools

I have little faith in my tools. They are rusted, poorly kept, and blunt. 

As I walk through the wilderness, my pack rattles it's sparse contents, revealing all the hollow spots, the absence. I doubt the rations will see me through. I do the maths in my head and the outlook is not hopeful. 

A miracle is what I think I need. A rescue party. 

More capable people, with fancy, shiny tools. 

And yet, even barefoot, even half-starved and aching, worn down by the rain and the sun- I survive. 

It was not pleasant, it was not comfortable, but here I am.  

I had everything I needed. 

 

 

 

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