Friday, October 4, 2019

Where The Bones Are Buried

Overwhelmed with stimulus of every sort, I finally realize that I'm just along for the ride. I seem to barely settle into joy when heartbreak yanks me into the far lane. I swill poetry and I stop to look at every weed with a little flower. "Look Homeward, Angel" comes wafting across the lobes and I'm mournful. 

Knowing full well that I will leave this planet having experienced such a tiny portion of what has been right in front of me, keeps me searching. Oh, it doesn't keep me from a good nap. Yeah, boy- I'll rank a good siesta under a slow ceiling fan right up there with any extravaganza on Broadway.

Meanwhile, I've seen the girls dance at Club Lido and I've had Harold's root beer shakes at the Old Meeting House. I've danced and I've laughed, and I've loved and cried. I don't suppose that there's any such thing as doing it right or doing it wrong.

There's nothing out there that can't be patched up with kindness.

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