I like evry-boudy. The End.

Carrying on a dislike is like carrying around a rusty axe-head in my pocket.  That bare wedge of iron.  Without a handle.

It’s heavy.  I ignore it.

It bangs bruisingly against my thigh when I want to jump up, when I turn suddenly, when jostled into motion.

But if I reach in, rooting around to bring it to light, I cut my fingers on its sharpened edge.

I keep sharpening the edge.

Is the problem the sharpness of the axe-head or that it has no handle? And getting a handle on it, what would that do?

Wreaking , or clearing?

Swinging wide and away:  A wider swathe of damage?  Or an opened path?

Who am I anymore?

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2 thoughts on “I like evry-boudy. The End.

  1. I’d like to think a wider path and an even better appreciation of the view.

    P.S. If you could just write every day, I’d be happy. Your words always make me think.

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