My back aches. My hands swell. I'm glad for the work. No one hassles me. I'm refreshed by the ocean breeze.
My prestigious education meant something many lifetimes ago. The awards I won as a journalist don't mean much anymore. The planners have planned the bulk of the wealth away from the bulk of the people. So I shovel dirt. And somehow I am grateful.
Another spadeful. Another. Another. My body works, my mind drifts. I am surviving, working. My mind is feasting. I shovel dirt and think about you.
6 comments:
I don't know what to say about this one.
Maybe I've been reading too much H. P. Lovecraft. :-/
At the same time, though, the rhythm of doing something physical is freeing - it's repetetive, you don't have to think about it, and your mind can wander to where it wants most to be.
I like it, I think. My mind just went in a strange direction at first.
i really appreciate how you write exactly how your feel, and how you feel is fluid. you monitor your internal movements so very finely in both your writing and reading. thanks so much, wendryn.
You are humble, and the best part is you think about me. :) I love it!
Yeah, I refuse to stop so I won't think about him.
Nicely done, baby.
you guys are so sweet to me. i eat it up!...as you know:)
Shoveling dirt... honest work. Writing, just divine.
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