Too Many Hours Alone

I face the void,

I face my cluttered house

(my consciousness, that is)

I wander driftingly

for lack of company

I take myself in hand,

try to straighten up the stories,

pull at some of their recurring loops,

so many of them feeling old —

I don’t believe them anymore

(if I ever did)

These narratives arise from isolation,

they build inside, reverberating

from props I have set up

(characters to populate my constructs)

They become a burden, a distraction,

a show that takes attention

from present interactions

and I think how awkward it would be

if anyone could read my thoughts —

so far removed they are

from the expected present care

But if we all could read each other’s thoughts

I think these ones would dissipate

with all their lame assumptions and their fears

We’d feel the reinforcement 

of acceptance, of approval

And we could walk easy

in the joy

of how light a touch of thought

could send such waves of comfort

to each other.

©Wendy Mulhern

September 9, 2014