Playtime in the Marsh
Recently someone shared with me that one small success a day was valuable. Most days I am in a quiet search for some hint of truth in this world. The majority of the gut wrenching instances I have come across, though, are red herrings. Take for example the positive preganancy test my uncle took last night, the swollen cheek I gave someone from my ruminations upon corporal punishment, and the mail I recieved today postmarked tommarrow.
Today I used my crayons as eyeliner and played in the dry sandbox of my neighbor's backyard. Other people's backyards are just so convenient these days. A clean break from any one soul, living or inanimate, in your own home witnessing your acts of childish remorse or better yet treasure hunt. Hunt. With a gun and a shovel. People always get uptight at the mere mention of guns without a single reference having been made to the point of the issue, the bullets by which the action proceeds.
I have decided I like this sandbox because unlike most places in the world it is the sole place where one can dig holes that can only go so deep. You can only go so far before the sand stops your progress, if you will, by collapsing in on its own depth. A sense of fleeting vacancy. Whether you move your hands out of the way or not is up to you, but the grit of your struggle can always be found snuggled up to the pink under your nails.
I might be stuck here asking you the question as to why this table upon which I presently rest my forearms may be more of a sentient being than most of the individuals I've had the curious pleasure of contact with today. But I have too many rocks to throw. And rubber stamps to cover my mother's curtains with.
Maybe my one success for today is knowing that tacks will never hang on cement walls so long as those bees keep flying over my cat's bed. Somehow, though, their flight path doesn't include my box of sand.
Today I used my crayons as eyeliner and played in the dry sandbox of my neighbor's backyard. Other people's backyards are just so convenient these days. A clean break from any one soul, living or inanimate, in your own home witnessing your acts of childish remorse or better yet treasure hunt. Hunt. With a gun and a shovel. People always get uptight at the mere mention of guns without a single reference having been made to the point of the issue, the bullets by which the action proceeds.
I have decided I like this sandbox because unlike most places in the world it is the sole place where one can dig holes that can only go so deep. You can only go so far before the sand stops your progress, if you will, by collapsing in on its own depth. A sense of fleeting vacancy. Whether you move your hands out of the way or not is up to you, but the grit of your struggle can always be found snuggled up to the pink under your nails.
I might be stuck here asking you the question as to why this table upon which I presently rest my forearms may be more of a sentient being than most of the individuals I've had the curious pleasure of contact with today. But I have too many rocks to throw. And rubber stamps to cover my mother's curtains with.
Maybe my one success for today is knowing that tacks will never hang on cement walls so long as those bees keep flying over my cat's bed. Somehow, though, their flight path doesn't include my box of sand.