Whose tears are these and why do they swim across my eyes, slowly waterboarding me from the inside? Falling down the rabbit hole is not the problem, crawling back up again caked in dirt and bedraggled dreams hurts like a baseball bat to the bridge of the nose.
Though welcome sunshine touches me gently on the top of my head, though birdsong cuts through the sound of traffic and chatter, I cannot raise myself. I want and I wish but feel selfish with each thought. A better life? Why can I not be grateful with the life I have? Content to be given life at all? Better how?
So these are my own tears. A relief, I suppose. Carrying those of somebody else might be a service to them but I clearly have my own to cry first. The words I really want are beyond my reach, the road between them and me closed for repairs. I am the same ten year old boy who scuffed up dust and leaves from the gutters by the road with vacant, unfocused yearning.
Long is the path behind me. Slow is the pace I walk. I cannot see as far ahead as I thought I could when I was young and time was kinder. Let go and trust the water. But what if…