The Word

Slowly, the days return to normal. The Life. I pick up the crumbling pieces of my existance, scattered around the tiny room where I live, along the concrete streets where I've fallen apart; I gather them up, take a deep breath, and begin to glue them back together again. (I always do, in the end, you know.) My computer travels around the world and returns with jobs, projects, promises of income that'll pay the rent another month, secure my footing in the city for a sliver of a while longer.

I begin to sleep more soundly in the night.

But as I scramble about in the cellars of Maslow's hierarchy of needs, my soul lies silent, its needs and contemplations stowed away until there is space for them. A hundred beloved projects lie unattended in my word processor; if I cannot live, I cannot write, and priorities rearrange themselves without my effort.

But, my darling word, you are not forgotten. Do you not see that I do this for you? That I toil, and weep, and fear, and fight, so you will have a spot of soil in which to grow, in which to flourish?

Wait for me. I'm trying to build you, a home.