Imagine a well: a place filled with clever ideas and flagellant wit; a witch’s brew cultivated by time spent under covers and the company of self.
We cultivate mystery; a dark cupful of it. And we pour it out with friends, splash it on new acquaintances (those lucky few we keep around), tip it over on strangers. We go forth, anointing the innocent and the wicked alike, saints of surrender.
Yet what happens when we are too busy to refill the well? When we are found, caught, and held too long in the sun? It is subtle – responsibilities, true love, bosom buddies, beautiful art – they take up our time, and they teach us, and entertain us. And oh! how they keep us busy, filling us with laughter, and a sweet joy. It is like sunshine on wooden stairs.
—
Sometimes I miss the shadowed place under the stairs, the place where the well is replenished. Where good books are kept, and tattered red cloth, and secrets.
(and the occasional wolf)