Below The Fold

Bossa Nova

I have thoughts, half finished, collected in a pile in the back of my closet, discarded unceremoniously like a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich and six soggy potato chips.

My eyes are tired.

I feel like a marathon runner who never finishes the race—never even sees the finish line. All I can do is sprint for short bursts with a modicum of success, but over the long haul, I’ve got no legs.

“If it’s more than 1,000 words, it’s not worth saying,” has become such a part of me that it feels like a third arm. Growing straight from my hip. With no elbow. And every time I walk through a doorway, it catches and knocks me clumsily off-balance. I careen into hapless passersby with a sheepish smile and a mumbled, “pardon me,” while I struggle to shield the jutting limb from curious onlookers.

I’m the boy with his finger in the dike. But instead of gushing, the Dike is a vacuum, and I’m just trying to plug the hole to keep the planet from depressurizing. I don’t think there are any more oxygen masks to help us if that happens.

Well, to help me, anyway.