clutching what should have been

last week was a blur, but today ticked on. taunting as the heat that sweeps down from somewhere. .. and stays. my home is encircled by a cracked brown mountain range. here, in the basin, in the dust, in the dirt. it's hard for us to see past what was. because our view remains the same. blank bold blue of empty air, shouts above my head. declaring something sensational, i'm sure. if i wasn't too habituated to hear it. i'm old. i am young. but i am old. and i feel tired or stresssed, from a borrowed burden. my mother's house is never clean enough, never new enough, never nice enough, never. ..enough. it's draining to scrape alongside a marathon martyr, thinking you're contributing, when maybe you're just in the way? what is family and what is right. is there a plan or am i just fooling myself. do i have a place, a space, a purposed path, a foredrawn way? all of this is hard to say. so, i feel sheepish, now. presumptuous, naive. you can't simply 'step back' and think you've gained perspective. this hill in the middle of the valley is still surrounded by mountain peaks.

only a bird could hope to truly see.