Wounds

Here isn't just there without a "t." Here is completely different than there. And I want to be there so much more than here a great deal of the time. But what is it about here that is so depressing, boring, routine, imprisoning? I blame it on the weather, on family, friends, on occupation and responsibility. But what is there to blame, when all is said and done? And who listens anyway? No one. Everyone else is centered in their own mini-verse. As, apparently, I am also. Otherwise it wouldn't bother me so. But recently, contentment seems to be sidling gently beside me, petting my hand in dusk without promising to stay until dark. I like being content, being happy. Perhaps I've outlasted myself. Dug deep enough, kept up the impression of happiness long enough to wait for the sun. Like a soldier braced against the blood and mud and rain, arm mangled, rifle cocked, death overhead - when at that fatal moment, the relief arrives, diving into the trenches and pulls the soldier out to safety to heal him. I want to believe that. But time will tell. I just. Don't. Know.