My words are thrown like stones hitting a wall. They penetrate nothing. They fall to the ground in a pile of rubble. Not even the dust is able to rise around them.

Why do I continue to reach for another stone? Why can I not be released back into the lake of complacency where I was first ensnared? Why must the words be pulled like a child being ripped from a mother's womb? They breathe life and then they must be nursed. They are imperfect. They are demanding. They will ultimately control me.

Have mercy on me. I live in the abyss of mediocrity. This I know. And this I cannot endure.

I reach for another lovely stone...

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Chekhov

"Apparently those who are happy can only enjoy themselves because the unhappy bear their burdens in silence, and but for this silence, happiness would be impossible. It is a kind of universal hypnosis.

Anton Chekhov
"Gooseberries"
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1 comment:

  1. skyriderJanuary 17, 2010 at 8:08 AM

    Umm, I have yet to experience this hypnosis. I seem to scream my unhappines, much to the distress of those whose happiness seems impossible unless I burden myself with silence...

    ReplyDelete

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