It is the hard times that make us what we are. Especially if they kill us, because then we are dead.
It is nothing like hard times here.
It is all sunshine and roses.
My wife, she goes in the garden and everything just blooms around her. Little flowers that were wilting perk up and turn their faces to her like she is the sun lighting on them. Their scents wafting up on the breeze just for her.
I go in the garden like Kali or Shiva, you know, a thousand arms sprouting all manner of axes and blades and shovels and saws. It gets loud and it gets ugly and it smells bad and then whatever was there isn’t there anymore and like as not something new is. Or scorched earth.
We do our dances, each to each.
I guess I’m just like everybody else. I think I’m one way, I’m some other, opposite to that. I don’t need to find out all the answers, though one would be nice.
My wife tells me I am crazy.
What kind of human would you be right now if you weren’t, is what I want to know.
I mean, who the fuck could be sane?
I ask you.