Yearnings

I asked her to write my story. The one gifted in writing. The one who had the time. It seems almost unfair that all of us have feelings as deep as the authors we revere. Their literary success depends on their writing echoing in our lives. I recently heard the story of a man locked in a coma for two decades. screaming to get out. Like so many of us who live lives with very small outlets.

The most of us who work because the alarm rings because the sun rises, because there are those who depend on us. And that is where it all begins. Are there those who care about more?

Not me, I wouldn't give a fig for the world and all that's in it if it didn't have those who needed me. Like a giant picture show, images flashing before me, separated distant, flat. But so many act like they do. I find myself being pulled along, wanting to matter somehow to the great beyond, but I find my skills a little wanting, my pace a little too slow. And that, at times, is my salvation.

The world, if it is to be understood, will be understood by those with connections to it. Those who spend their lives in the daily pursuit of the others who need them.