Igloos of sugar cubes

I'm acutely aware that it's time to demand more.
From everything.  From a day.  From what I fill that day with.
From you.  From me.
I'm kind-of-sort-of calling this a scrap year.
Not in any way I'd take back;  I learned.  I did.
But I didn't grow in stride.
And I'm not walking in stride.
Most days I sit in this.
I haven't done a lot of that twentysomethingmumbojumbo
that gives a person a superficial reason
to believe they're successful.
And I certainly haven't found success in the real world.
(Wherever that is).
I just want to be proud of myself.  Deep in there.
I want to know that when I say things like "myself,"
I know who that's referring to.
I want to live in a house of cadence, honesty,
integrity and deliciously lived hootinanny.
Not words.  Not my house of cards.
Not in toothpicks or igloos of sugar cubes.
That break in weight.  And fall in strain.  And melt in heat.