It was a Saturday–a rainy one, too–and she hungered for something adventurous to do. She thought of making coffee because that fit the feeling, but at the clank of the mugs, she settled and let be. Her hunger steered her to the stove, where she envisioned a pan full of eggs. She made them, ate them, emptied her plate then she noticed the hunger–still there.
Perhaps she’ll do dishes to feel like a maid in a time that feels more fulfilling. But the dishes got done, and she hungered on; what in the world is this insatiable feeling?
She walked to the great room and saw the piano and thought that it might do the trick. So she tickled the ivories for moonlight, for Clair, but the sounds in the air did not sit.
Then she thought of a magical world that always enchanted her heart–their wands, their swords, their bleak corridors of which she yearned to be part.
All of a sudden, that feeling inside felt satisfied for a moment. And there she sat, happy and fat, but the moment–gone ‘fore she knows it.
It hit her harder than it had all day–so much so she dropped a tear. There she had been, so close, so close, but the pain–it remained here.
Back to her bed she returned with a sigh; I guess it’s just one of those days. She curled up in covers with no one to snuggle and breathed out the last of her pain.
The afternoon came, best friends did the same, claimed they saw the hole she was digging. But I guess they forgot ’bout the old, weathered clock which through rain and pain won’t stop ticking.
Mysterious Balances 