As if suspended in the air by a director’s “Cut!” are the balls you’ve been juggling. Far too many, you’re trailing; never once will you taste the carrot.
Defeat.
Rinse repeat.
A ten-stack of bricks lay on your chest each morning.
A deja vu that won’t quit – you sit – in its unshakable daze. Or, in malaise, your most cherished designation. Inflation, or is it a staycation in a banana boat on the riviera.
Come as you are and come apart at the seams. Don’t worry, ’cause I’ll stitch you with my needle and thread.
Love, J.L.
Going On 40 