Chancellorpink:

If you could only stare out at an ocean, things would seem more…What?  The water laps with power, more powerful than you, for certain, but, joyfully, more powerful than the bill collectors knocking, or your boss bitching, or the cancer tick-tocking, the heart stopping.

Who knows when the time will come?  Not the ocean.  Its timelessness says…What?  That you crawled out of it once and will be there again.  Comforted by the sound of nature, the sky’s tears or a worm kicked up by the storm.  This says…What?  That everything gets tilled up by a plow.  That everything gets washed away.

Timeless and comforting.  That no one calls.  No one comes.  The ocean can be next to your toes, or hundreds of miles to a distant coast, and nothing changes.  The ocean's not cleaning your toes tomorrow.  So you'll have to head home to the foot board.  Tie your sandals to a post.  Hang up your flag of surrender.  And sleep.

The walk in the park was.…What?  Your walk better come at an hour when you feel strong, when you have a sense of self taking over, and your feet bounce, despite the weight of solitude, before locking your sneakers away into a closet again, after climbing the stairs in silence again.  And what did you learn on the trail?  And who did you say hello to?  Nothing and no one, but you did the right thing.  You kept the ticker beating for another hour, or, dear God, perhaps more.  Dear God, you did the right thing.

The sip of the wine or beer is…What?  Numbing.  Losing the identity you have forged, without choice, seemingly without effort.  The black hat tumbles to a place on the floor, next to cat hairs and crumbs, of a little taco shell, one day, that day, you made a sense of identity from eating Mexican alone.

The beer says…What?  Hello to imagination, when the worldly lies lose their footing, slip up and falter, and you can smile again, finally, while blabbering the truth, uncontrolled, of how ugly we all can be, all of us, and you too.  So much truth that you'll regret it in the morning, again.

The morning is…What?  A fresh start on lying.  The wheel keeps spinning, and you haven’t escaped.  Over and over, once more you're dreaming of a beer by the ocean, after a long walk.  Dreaming of…What?

The Chancellor