Do you?

We like Impressionism

I think because it’s easier to hide in the impression of something.

Saying the actual words flare’s pride’s ugly head.

Simplicity falters in protective pride’s presence and is replaced by the dodging sense of idea, the impression of simplicity, complex in nature.

And we call this wise,

We call it thoughtful.

We call deep thinkers the ones the true ones who can express the ethereal.

But it’s easy to hide an ugly reality in numerous philosophies or reasons.

Once you bite one apple

You fall asleep.

No more. No less.

Once you eat one cake

You shrink.

Or grow.

One step,

One thought of folly swallows you whole.

And we leave the dog wisdom, simplicity, purity, honesty, chained in her dog house as we play with the dog-like puppets of perception and impression.

The puppets resemble the real thing, but their eyes shine beady, wide, and dull; scratched with falls.

Stain-glass masqueraders.

We leave reality in the downstairs kitchen as we sit with the dolls around the cramped tea table.

The cups get filled,

The food appears on the plates,

As we stuff ourselves with the ethereal crumbs-

Crumbs inspired enough by reality that we believe it to be solid.

And yet we starve.

Because what’s the inspired impression of simply sad?

Simply “how are you”?

Simply “I failed”?

Simply lonely.

Simply hard.

Simply “I was wrong”?

Simply “I’m sorry”?

I’m sorry that happened- because it shouldn’t have.

I’m sorry that sadness has touched you.

I’m sorry you have to think this way.

I’m sorry for what you suffer.

I’m sorry it fell apart.

I’m sorry I was not there.

I’m sorry I couldn’t,

Sorry no one could.

Sorry I thought I could fix it,

When I was the one needing fixing.

Sorry I hid-

When I should have shouted.

In one breath,

With what little breath we have;

How do we bottle the impression of simple thoughts in words into conversation?

Without faltering.

Without hurting.

What does as much good?

And what does pride hate more?

Than a true simple “I’m sorry”.

The dates on the graves grow dim.

The stones have cracked and fallen and I can’t read the names like before.

The creek dried up.

The dog died.

The trees thinned.

Thorns don’t grow.

The house smells older.

I think I have my first wrinkle

The sun seems dimmer, but softer.

My heart feels heavier, but hope is stronger.

I still question the stars on cold fall nights.

I still wonder

And I still hide when I shouldn’t.

But I don’t cut down the trees.

I take notice of the wildflowers.

I smile at the rain.

I was more angry, now I’m more afraid.

But I don’t run past the stairs in the dark anymore.

…

Do you?