Chasm, by Kevin Shea, May 2017
No one tells you that little drama would have a huge part in the fracture of life, in the foot bones of the soul
while it slams the brake pedal to the floor in a bid for control. That cliff
edge is close and getting closer.
No one tells you that of course
this is not your beautiful house, this is not your beautiful wife, because they
never belonged to you in the first place. Of course, this is what the imps in
your head whisper to you as you try to fall asleep. No point in asking
through sobs "How did I get here?" because you truly don't grasp it
all. And sometimes the shittiness of life means you will not be told by those
who swing the hammer.
No one tells you that the
cleavage plane of mid-life won't be rewarded with that supermodel armcandy in
the leather bucket seat. No, you won't get that as comfort, cold or otherwise.
What you get is waking up in what feels like a down-at-the-heels luxury hotel,
unsure of where you are, and cursing at the asshole cat who can't leave the
mini-blinds alone.
You ask yourself, if this is a hotel, why is there a cat here?
Because right now, it isn't a hotel, it is a hiding place. The cat is along for the ride, and you can't help but be thankful for a companion with whom to gaze into the chasm you have to cross.
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