i suppose

i am brooding. everything's drearier when disappointment drizzles down.

clean plates and burdened bellies

guts heavy with the denseness of bread. baked two days ago in the blaze of afternoon. even now i wonder why i am eating it. the plan was to have something fun to do. spicy and seasonal and scrumptiously appreciated. alas, the two loaves sit alone on the counter. holes in their centers, pierced and prodded, picked at and gobbled by only yours truly. standing up and on my way out. or hours like now. when it's late and the house is heavy with the denseness of dark. i can't even commit to liking them or not. the taste isn't as savory as imagined, but the eating action just.. .happens. i made them, so i ate them. and is such the stuff of life?

we don't waste here in jacobs' house.

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.