I don’t know what to do anymore but drink $9 riesling and wait for my luck to run out. I take short, measured steps on the mountain path, its peak bathed in cumulonimbus, a bubble bath of cool rain crystals waiting with bated breath to fall and all the little wildflowers reach up and up and up. It’s all so harmonious, everything to plan, and I can’t imagine not being able to see it - connect feet to path to eyeline and know that in order to get where you’re going you have to.. keep going. But there’s a chasm between some people’s feet and their ideals, their expectations, and they do themselves and everyone around them a disservice when they refuse to build a bridge. What do you mean you Are™ something you haven’t taken the first step towards becoming? I’m sick with the grief of knowing I can’t control everything, that I have to soften and leave myself in hands I can’t trust because they haven’t shown me anything they’ve made. It’s all tricks and illusions, slant rhymes and loopholes. Sleight of hand is child’s play. Where’s the real magic? The effort, the long game, one foot in front of the other? I can’t subsist on empty calorie promises. I’ll starve here waiting for the meal.
