Spend an hour crying at puppies and military homecomings, spend an hour wandering grocery store aisles wondering if anything really matters in the long run. There's a great sadness in the depth of your well, and you spend too much time trying to outrun it, instead of bathing in it to find what it is made of.
You're starting to think maybe the bathing is why you are here.
Work beckons you for another day, another week, another lifetime. It feels like the last time, just before you stepped off the treadmill, just before you said it's not worth forgetting how to tell stories, to please you. Maybe this means something.
Maybe the bottom of the well knows what.
No comments:
Post a Comment