I have no use for a straight line

It doesn’t do anything interesting. Parallel lines are useless. They have no adventure. They’re unaffected by the world. Give me a line that meanders, takes in its surroundings. Give me a line drawn with an old pen, held in many hands. Scraped and glided along many surfaces. Buffeted by life…. give me a line that tells it’s story, that sings its song.

The line of a life that reaches a deep and profound sadness is beautiful. Some sadness is unresolvable. It must be endured. And lived with. It travels alongside you. Sometimes it’s in the front of your mind, and you can feel it in your chest, heavy. Sometimes, it drifts along, above and behind, a cloud on a string attached to your shoulder. Some days you can shut the sadness in a cupboard. But it inevitably seeps out through the keyhole and under the door. Or it comes in through the back door when you let out the cat. The line is yours. You can’t break it. Even when you die it ties itself to someone else, or is left as a trace on the earth. 

Sometimes I write and then don’t know what to do with what I’ve written.

So I will let it sit here for a while… so I can revisit it and think about it.

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