I will never find it and I will always be lonely.

This I have begun to understand.

Married, with dog and friends and new extended family there will always be a hole I dug myself and that can be stuffed full with bodies but they will never fit together like the soil that belongs there. A failed game of tetris, a square and a triangle that do not create a diamond, though hammered with the biggest mallot you can find.

I speak words and they flow out and I see them parting in wisps around awaiting ears. A little of bit of smokey understanding seeps into my companion, and I can see it in their eyes, but the rest is lost. even less makes it's way back.

We do this to ourselves. It is a reality of our own defining. We bore a little well in our most valuable real estate and wait for the water to seep up and in some cases we hit our mark, sometimes we hit oil, or find gold. It doesn't belong there, but it can buy us a soda when we are parched. The rest of us learn to tend our well. We build a wall around it, step carefully along the borders. Sometimes we take a trip to it's depths and test the dry earth and take deep breaths in the musky darkness. We emerge pail, hungry, heightened senses careening. And every thing is too much, and all we can do is to paint a prettier picture and place it on top of the well so we don't fall in. It is a picture of a tree, a rock, the ground that was once there. Our lover is now sitting atop on the well, a figure of rocks and sticks and likely personage. There are our ancestors, peering down.


A well decorating and seldom celebrated tunnel that goes deep down and is only getting deeper each time we dig a bit more, hoping to quench our thirst.

I am well fed but exquisitely thirsty, and I keep cooking to replenish the feast.