RIGHT WHAT'S WRONG

I've invented a contraption. It's broken. When someone comes across the contraption they feel compelled to repair it but every attempt they make to fix it just breaks it more. It's addictive. The intrigue experienced when you try to repair the contraption becomes a compulsion. Soon you are muttering and moaning and growling in irritation but you won't give up. You'll stand up and walk around the contraption and consider it from all angles and you'll draw diagrams of it and make 3D models of it and perform mathematical equations based on it and even write poems about it, so fascinated by the contraption you will be. You will name it too. You'll give it all kinds of names. You'll name it after yourself. You'll name it after me. You'll name it after a country. Afghanistan maybe. Or perhaps you'll just call it 'life', after that other confusing thing you've been wrestling with and that the contraption provides distraction from. The contraption may be frustrating but at least it is not that other confusing thing.

And eventually, after you have grown weary and old and your mental capacity has diminished and your physical strength is sapped, you will look at the contraption and realise that you never even knew what it was for and you will wonder if it was even broken in the first place and then you'll come to understand that all you did was break it over and over and over again in new ways, each and every time until, finally, the contraption broke you.

Then you'll breathe your last and collapse and I'll take up your body and put it in a sack. I'll place you in the space under my stairs and then I'll wait and watch for the next person to come along and find the contraption and try, until dead, to right what's wrong.