You're dying here with the quiet kids in some gesture of solidarity. Anyone who stopped to look could see that you have stifled the process of your own blossoming on principle. You know this thing is tragic, you feel it all the way down, all this flowering brilliance not coming into being. The quiet rooms are half-filled with those who do not seek your eyes and find solace on the floor, in the corners with the dust and chipped flakes of wax. You are there for the anesthesia, if you're honest, as much as for love of the beau geste. The sun will find you, I pray, and unfold you, and you will become the you that you must. That road is difficult and dangerous and beautiful to behold. You have all my faith.
Monday, April 4, 2011
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Hell, this hurts.
ReplyDeleteI didn't know I needed to find me, that there was a me to find, until after the children left - comfortably numb perchance?
Not sure what this means or who it's for, Sandra. Now that I've written it, I can think of several different applications. Thanks for the comment! Something about Spring hurts. The waking up is painful.
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ReplyDeleteThanks, John.
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