Make Me Stone

I write to run. When the words stop, I am too much.
I sit in this hard-backed chair, surrounded by strangers and their stories.
I watch them read and work and study and be.
They leave and arrive.
I sit in this hard-backed chair, surrounded by strangers and their stories.
They are unaffected.
They leave and arrive.
I am affected.
They are unaffected.
I want to mean something. To me. To everyone.
I am affected.
I feel so much.
I want to mean something. To me. To everyone.
I do not know where my worth is found. Is it found in you?
I feel so much.
I want to feel. I want to feel. Make me stone.
I do not know where my worth is found. Is it found in you?
I watch them read and work and study and be.
I want to feel. I want to feel. Make me stone.
I write to run. When the words stop, I am too much.

But complaining is much more fun!

Good things happen. The sun did not die today. You did not drown in the bath. The bus – though it may have been late – eventually arrived and transported you somewhat miraculously at your destination so you did not have to walk or wait for your neighbor to drop by with her covered wagon to wagonpool with you and her horses are notoriously distractible so surely the bus was faster.

Good things happen each second of each day. You did not just develop gills; thus, oxygen enters your bloodstream via your lungs and you continue living as these words sit on the page.

Oh, but these are commonplace things. They aren’t good things. They are just things.

You are too hard to please, my friend. You say that continuing to live is commonplace? Do not blame the world for a lack of goodness when you are bored with the entirety of your existence.