A Tea and Bagel

Whiling away the time through glimpses into the rain . . .

I’m a blogger.

There are certain sacrifices that we all have to make, I realize, as I write this- and, even as I listen to my own drivel- I am reminded that I am basically a small, microscopic dot, which merely makes its imprint onto the page . . . reeling out small bits of truth, which blend into lines when they can. It’s difficult. Not to think about what others think about these words . . . difficult. I shrug again, not finding it within myself to care- I glance at the page again. 

I feel like I am, one large organ, inundated in sorrow. My poor, lonely, cantankerous empty heart- and I look to the bagel at the side. It is a temptation. But, to me it is only another factor in my life that I must resists. There is no encouragement, I know, which tea or bagels can bring me, at the moment. 

I take another long sip of my tea. Who will read this? Consistent drivel, I think . . . what can I possibly say that will instill my words, pouring it into my thirsting soul, like a drink? How can I make an impression? They just drone on, and on and on . . . careless drivel. I’m finding it difficult to imbibe meaning from its succor . . . although the words give me a life-giving fountain? A stream which flows into my thoughts, sadness and pain, things that I could not feel if I were on my own. The words give me life, and bring nourishment to me so that I can grow, spiraling upwards? Bloom out, and spread my blossoms in the warm heat?

Without the words, I would die, as without sustenance. They keep me rooted to life, like a flower to soil. Without them, I would not be alive. My bagel and my drink wait idly by, waiting for me to fill myself up on their offer . . . and yet, I can do nothing to them but stare. Wondering, ‘was all of this meant for me?’ If I am really to live, then how could I sustain myself merely from food, and organic things? My throat is parched. I swallow, and glance away. These things hold no attraction for me . . .

My words, a constant drivel, wine and churn through my mind, until I see the imprint. They are wonderfully consistent. It’s fascinating to watch. Sometimes, I feel, that even though my throat is parched, I could live just upon their sustenance. They provide me with my link to life, not the objective- they run through my veins, a truth, a desolate feeling, a tear, a spurt of joy that rains through the spiraling mist.

But, still, they carry through me with these feelings. My food remains tasteless. But the words always bring me life. With them I can feel what no one has made me feel as a human. They are organic nutrients, giving me what every living thing needs, in order to be considered ‘living- they give me glimpses . . .  snatches of life seen through splattered rain splotches, falling along the window next to me- tiny slices of random life . . .

 

I put my pen to the side, and glance away. My cares and sorrows have slid, along the pane of glass, leaving me with a plain perspective-

My view is, once again, a tea and bagel.