Our scary monsters.
They love to pin us against the wall,
make a lot of noise.
Spittle in the corners of their mouths.
Lately I struggle and struggle against my own self. Wrestle with the demons of my own creating. Pinned to the ground and smote on the hip, I limp away in the mornings bruised and battered. I conjure them up to do battle, I guess. I crave peace and bliss in my bones, but I thrash and holler in the night like my bed’s on fire.
The Monk says our repetitive thoughts trap us. What we imagine, what we say to ourselves in our constant running commentary, has a warping influence on reality. We’re like busy little weavers, making the cloth of our lives. Present, past, and future.
There is something to this.
If I could just unclench my hands for a few hours.
But there he is again, every time I open the door.
Waving his arms over his head.
“C’mon, you big baby. Let’s see whatcha got.”
I should go back inside. Shut the door.
I should do a lot of things.