Before the well runs dry.
We run like rivers. We don’t fit, you and I. Nor do the stories about us. There is this room with impossibility, and I’m sitting on this couch in the room. I’m an impossibility. I thought that would be a memorable cause or something my father would have told me when we we’re having one of those talks. He would tell me “one day son, you will meet a girl who will sit with you in this room of impossibility and she will make you smile, and she will make everything possible.” But my father left when I was young and those images and thoughts and a voice to inhabit like his were just things I made up, along with this room. And then all of a sudden things got very sad. I forgot I had a neighbor man who lived up stairs. When he asked for the plants to grow he would hand me some seeds and some water and some dirt and he would ask me to make the earth uproot. And when I was pleasing for some sky or some sunshine I would ask him for it. And when we wanted a bit of water we would tell each other sad stories to make each other drain of the water in our bodies to run like rivers. And when we would run like rivers the sun would come out and she would look down at my seeds and tell them it’s time to wake up. It’s time to grow. Good morning is what I wanted to say.
