Today, close to tears, I mourn my self that life is not the panacea I seem to have had in mind…for today. Little space in which to ply hard-won skills, I am forced to ask for favors, instead of getting fair-market value in a market for which there is no obvious demand.
Favors: bribes upon my character; psychic debt; stinging loss of integrityâ€™s feathers and petals. My man-childâ€™s leg crumpled beneath him: knee bent out of dimension, requiring repair. â€˜They know what theyâ€™re doing,â€™ weâ€™re told. â€˜Do they know what theyâ€™re doing?â€™ – we ask.
Time will tell. Youthâ€™s aches, temporary, remarkably self-healing, can be rubbed away with an ease that surprises.
Do they know what theyâ€™re doing?
We repress the question, but it asks itself in the midst of nightâ€™s dreams and wakefulness.
Today, close to tears, sitting here, waiting for…tomorrow?