Murk

 There are dead fish bobbing in the milky green water of your aquarium soul. Dreams that once smiled and bubbled with laughter have gone terribly still and stiff. I don’t understand your pain, but I have found golden chunks of unmarked wisdom sleeping on the scarred floor of your perception. If there were a cure for this tunneling black skepticism, I know I would find it in your words.

 

Clarity is overrated.

 

I want to drown in the murky mass of your confusion, tangled in the twisted green water-whips that flail about on the uncertain tide and smashed against the red coral reef like a fly on a 100 mph windshield. Then, when you sit on the edge of the bed and quietly weep, I can honestly say that I understand.

 

Author's Note

If God were bubblegum, what flavor would He be?

Reviews

[V.B.]

I don't generally go for prose. It's always struck me as a compromise between two things that I never saw the need to combine, but you are helping to change my mind about it. I really enjoyed this as well--thanks for sharing it!

[Robin]

Understand I that say honestly can I