Interior Monologue
by r. miller This vacant, rain-drenched field really speaks to me, tells me more about my life and the way I've been living it than I could ever care to know. It's weird to think about. As are sunsets, billiard parlors, and quantum theory. Over the steppes, straight from the cast iron heart of human drama, wails of desperation come pouring. Supposing I could ignore these and similar entities, then what? I'd manage. Half-assedly, yes, but I'd manage. I'd give myself a little leg room. I'd let the paint on the walls dry. Maybe even take up a new hobby, something like woodworking, only without so much use of my hands. My desires seemed so much deeper in my punch bowl days. I could fit my entire arm in them and still not touch bottom, and seeing just how far I could get was part of the fun. Now they just go wrist deep, and I'm somehow okay with it? No big thing. A bowl of ramen contains all the hope and faith I could ever stomach. I've got the scars to prove it. |
|