It's official: my father's old. I had to clean up his shit last night. This life is ugly when you stick around. There's always some mess to clean up. From dust-bunnies to dead bodies, debris builds as this world stubbornly circles the sun.
I used to wait tables at an ecclusive island hotel. And I waited on a few rich, important people. Once a rich man asked me, "What's it like out on the streets? How are the common people taking the economy?"
This man assumed my finger was on the blue-collar pulse of the nation. There was a benevolence to his approach that pre-supposed my mediocracy, in comparison. I don't know what that rich man wanted to hear. I told him, "We common people are doing the best we can." I said it with a numb, yet sincere, smile.
So reason should come find me one of these long years. Time gets shorter the longer I wait. And though I've written and read with passion, I haven't mastered serenity. Inside, I'm not ok. All any of us can do is keep going. Sometimes that's all there is. Purpose takes a backseat to pragmatism. Things slow and settle. To world washes us to odd shores. What wonder waits? Filled with pain, and sadness, but moving forward all the same.
