Brush Fire

Restless and a bit listless. I tow the party line of dutiful provider and faithful spouse. But as the years move quickly, the rolls take on different meanings, except for a chosen few. The bones grow wary sometimes, and I often find myself longing to bury myself beneath the covers, once again. It gets harder and harder to come up with excuses to paint on a smile of optimism. Instead opting for the words of silence for relief. 

I find it very hard to be “inspirational”, these days. Having been separated me from the few I confide in. Leaving me alone with the echoes of my own broken mind. I leave my misery sprinkle about, in words of hardened candor or in the blustery sayings of a bitter old man. But these are nothing more than the honest cries of disappointment and shame.  
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I wish I could offer some words of peace, if just for myself. But making empty promises are just not my thing. Maybe it would be wise to simply bury my head in the sand. But the before mentioned obligations make that impossible. So I tighten the belt one more notch and preform the task at hand. Turning them into nothing more than chores I no longer look forward too. This in turn heaps even more guilt on this raging brush fire in my soul.