What I shall I write for you today? I ask myself, sitting pensively, pen poised in midair. With not a thought staying long enough to be captured, I pull down books. Big, dusty books of poetry, rich with thought, laden with the timeless words of what it means to live, weighed down by the confines of human frailty.
I pore over verse after verse, and suddenly slam the cover shut. Poetry is meant to pierce the soul. I had forgotten that somehow. Now, faced with centuries old verse and metaphor, the thoughts run too deep tonight. They are too raw. Just below the surface there is a reservoir, begging to break free. And I can’t. I can’t let the wild animals inside run free. Because if I do, I doubt I could ever get them back. And what would we do then?
So, here we are in the shallow. The shallow is where we belong. We laugh. We smile. We talk about food, and the neighbors, and the sales at Macy’s. Anything but what is real. It is safe here in the shallow. Nothing can get you here tonight. The shallow is where we belong.
Except when it isn’t. What will we do then?