Mope

Don’t get me wrong. Those frenetic people than burn incandescent, seesaw through life, never crossing at a crosswalk aren’t me. Eddie, Becca, Jordan. They are all like that. Talking fast about topics they don’t understand. Quick to laugh. Pointing to glimpses of their internal compasses as they flail about in the underbrush of self-deception. Quick to anger. Move on, nothing to see.

Oh, to be seen.

Like the moth, I am drawn perhaps perilously. Caution and prudence dance with their irresistability, creating a field of invisibility, a lack of belonging.

Mother calls.

I’ll stay in bed and mope, missing Eddie.


Picture is copyright by Lauren Rushing.

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