I face the void,
I face my cluttered house
(my consciousness, that is)
I wander driftingly
for lack of company
I take myself in hand,
try to straighten up the stories,
pull at some of their recurring loops,
so many of them feeling old —
I don’t believe them anymore
(if I ever did)
These narratives arise from isolation,
they build inside, reverberating
from props I have set up
(characters to populate my constructs)
They become a burden, a distraction,
a show that takes attention
from present interactions
and I think how awkward it would be
if anyone could read my thoughts —
so far removed they are
from the expected present care
But if we all could read each other’s thoughts
I think these ones would dissipate
with all their lame assumptions and their fears
We’d feel the reinforcement
of acceptance, of approval
And we could walk easy
in the joy
of how light a touch of thought
could send such waves of comfort
to each other.
©Wendy Mulhern
September 9, 2014
