Lives of quiet desperation, indeed!
Who knows what makes us tick?
Certainly the omnipotent Creator, known as God to most of us
But what about our spouses, lovers, friends, children, parents?
Do any of them have the complete picture, stolen from furtive looks, whispers under covers, secrets revealed, lies unfurled from contradictions we tell ourselves and others?
No, no being in the flesh knows our totality.
So who was there when you thought you were alone, about to pass gas,
in your desk chair, naked, but instead shot loose bowel movement?
No one knows this, until they enter your inner sanctum and spot the permanently stained memory foam desk chair, albeit cleaned up, still ruined…and the chair is $325, so you grapple with will anyone ever see it, and shine the light on a dark alley…
Or the middle-aged workaholic, who cares for all around her, patients, clients, family, but fails to set limits on any of them, thus wearing herself to a wizened nub of a chewed Tootsie roll lollipop, with long since nothing edible left.
Forgetting the maxim that the caregiver can give nothing when she herself is not cared for, or about. To love is also to discipline those around us. When you don’t value yourself, no one else will either.
Or the secret lover of our dreams, who we keep locked up under the floorboards, or in a hidden closet? Fodder for gossip, he is! Chuckling, far away, unreal, because unraveled, like the shit spot on the desk chair. Only small glimpses afforded publicly.
He is a friend who sends flowers and chocolate and perhaps one single long stem red rose, which lasts for eternity in memory…
Indicating present desire and mystery. She knows if one man is pursuant, others will take a second look.
Secrets are nectar on a hot summer day, sliding down the throat of the parched but still beautiful red rose, who thirsts for her lover. But even he doesn’t get all of her, because no one should hold the entire set of keys. Keep them guessing, because when everything is known, it is time to die.