UnderConstruction

Do you ever not feel like yourself?

Do you ever feel—say, fractured into billions of little pieces, just drifting within your own body without purpose?

How about your grief? Is it in check today? Did you put it back in that damned glass jar again? 

I've already warned you of the teeny cracks in that jar. They don't look like much now but if it's weakened that much already I'd hate to see what it will look like in a couple of weeks.

Need a break?

Sit down, please, and listen. Let me tell you what I know.

You put your grief in the jar if you must, poor darling.

I stick mine in one as well.

The Wishing Well

It was a startling dream, one that made her wake in a state of dazed horror. The well was real, but it seemed so only to her. 


She, who knew things others did not, but not the act of functioning as she should. They walked, beautifully normal, unbridled lives of simplicity.


'Only that which is the other can lead us fully unto ourselves,' preaches a philosopher, and she wonders if they realize just how right they are.


She is not unto herself, as the wishing well was.


Children dreamed sweet dreams of the place, beckoned by its easy demeanor, its fields of wonder. But she knew.


Gates held the wishing well, high pikes that threatened even the most free mind. She was one, but many were as well, and she was not as special as they.


The wishing well knew as she did. There was no payment she could give for what she wished.


But the wishing well granted, and now the wishing well called from the depths of her memory.


No longer was she unable to pay. The dry wall rot of gold was beckoning as it once had, but she withheld.


Only when the time was right, would the well fully understand the hardship it had placed upon her.


The well understood everything when the time was right.


So she waited, calling to the winds of time for another glimpse at the strength behind a facade of mortal objects.


The well was not what it appeared to be.


One