Too Many

There are. Too many pictures. Snippets of other lives and other times. I scroll down. But they follow me. Littering my piano top. I flip the page. But other images slip in. And take their place. Friends posing for the camera. Weary with smiles too wide and colors too bright for shadow dwellers. I cannot look.

There are. Too many people. Crying for attention or merely crying. I shut my eyes. But the light seeps in. Damaging my retinas. I shut my ears. But the voices will not cease. Shattering my ear drums. Humanity's dying gasp. Filtered through the defibulating heart of someone who once cared. I cannot help.

There are. Too many angels. Balanced precariously on the pin's head. I fold my hands. But my fingers still twitch. Wrinkled and arthritic. I bend my knees. But they fight the pew. Cramping from calf to heel. Deity's last prayer. Visited as acid rain upon the head of an unrepentant sinner-saint. I cannot believe.

There are. Too many questions. Left unaddressed and unanswered. I turn my head. But no one raises their hand. The class is dumb. I purse my lips. And the vacuum of space. Swallows my words. Cold matter's final pronouncement. Proclaims that history isn't a sieve, but an impenetrable wall. I cannot grieve.

Imperfectly Said

Perfection is an idea, not a reality. No matter how long or hard you practice something, it will never be done perfectly. Work to improve your performance, but accept your flaws. Inarticulation is the way of the world.

Like Love In Love

Like. Love. In Love. Three distinct states; frequently existing concurrently in the same heart.

Like. She appeals to me. I’m fond of her. I enjoy her presence. She has my eye.

Love. She’s dear to me. I care about her. I worry about her. I want to protect her.

In Love. I think of her passionately. I want to be with her. I want to touch her. I want her to care about me.

See what I mean. Separate, not equal. Like is fun, but sterile. Love is selfless, but terrible. In Love is selfish, but wonderful.