WRITING: Middle Ground

Somewhere between ecstasy and despair there is a land of normal where I visit sometimes when I cannot think. I’ve stayed there maybe minutes in an hour of pain to get a gulp of air and some days I have lingered months because the ground would hold my weight. It is a place where pictures can take precedence and algebra means something to me. It is a place where I can eat without savoring, without wanting more, without want. It is a place where I can sleep and get some rest. No dreams to interfere, no nightmares threaten, no wanting more, no want at all. It is not a cottage by the lakeside or the beach, or a cabin in the woods where big black bears and tigers growl gently at the door; it is a place where most people live year round their lifetimes through, and I for one, can not see why. Unless it is the comfort of the gilded doorknobs and the pewter window grids that hold the one-way panes, and the locks of sterling silver that glow dimly through a tarnished black. I can work here, I can abide and talk to friends and strangers. I must stay a little longer this time, and even if I leave, I know I’ll need to go back soon. It can be, for now, my end of summer home.