Rocks in the water

And she said

“I’m tired and, and I can’t tell anyone why.  It’s a tired that wells down to the bottom of my soul, a tired that has nothing to do with my shell, my physical home.  It’s the tired of carrying an endless, invisible burden that can never be relinquished, the tired of opening and shutting, opening and shutting.  It’s the tired that sips and sips until there is nothing left to drink from the well that should never run dry, the tired that comes from taking out all the paints, then putting them away again, dry and stiff.  It’s the tired of holding steady against the never-ending assault, the onslaught of drudgery and sadness, the tired of repetitive repeating repeated repeats.

I can’t tell anyone why because it’s the tired of a being on this planet, in this time, in this moment.  It’s carrying around the burden of need and want and desire and fear and hate and anger, the weight of  the grindstone of life.

They tell me there is a balance, I hear voices say “find your center, find your ground, everything will fall into place once you are more balanced.” When I hear those voices, I envision myself with a rock, pounding laundry in the river, the water washing and running and dragging the wet cloth behind.  Rocks, pounding on rocks, endlessly rushing water soothing weary clothes.  The clothes are clean, the water doesn’t notice.

I hear that Beauty (with a capital) makes all things Better (also with a capital).  I have yet to Believe in  such magical nonsense.  Magic, opiate of the Believers.  Sometimes, I wish I did.  Believe.  Or not Believe.  Would that Beauty would work such magic for me, such magic that the weight of human beingness would be somehow different, would lighten instead of leaven.”

She sat down, in the river, and picked up a rock.

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