I might have said, "I have a sneaking suspicion," but that was a lie. I don't have suspicions that sneak. I have suspicions that come to town with a parade miles long, a parade replete with elephants and fire breathers and a million coronet players. I think that this is why I get so worked up about news that I haven't even been given yet. Everything that I should be thinking under my breath is thinking itself at the top of its lungs, and it has to borrow trouble from towns miles away in order to pay for the costs of that parade.
We have many of us come through the lately and the now-and-again shattered sadly on the rocks, broken into fragments like the bones and shellfish dropped from high by birds of prey looking to snack on the tender meats within. I always forget to notice the claws gripping around my midsection and instead marvel at my own cleverness, flying like this, right up until those talons release their hold. I forget about the cracking because I'm too busy patching myself with slivers of stained glass, making sure that none of my bases are covered, taking the long way around right back to where I started. Variations on a theme. Being wrong takes just as much energy as being right.
More and more I want to cover my neck, to swathe my vulnerable throat in chain mail and barrels and ancient Roman lead. I have a sneaking suspicion that I mostly want what I can't have because it looks so fetching from so far away, as it sits there among the rocks.
No comments:
Post a Comment