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Ornament
December 03, 2007 | Category: This Old House
I know that if you read this site from a feeder or reader of some kind, you probably have the inside track when I post something and then bring it down.
In the past, I've been treasonously guilty of self-censoring. People who have known me my whole life have become frequent visitors and that has often left me a torrid case of second thoughts about my posts.
But this does not explain the past week.
I am spun glass.
I am stretched so thin that you could use me as a window to the world.
I am afraid, and trying to pretend nonchalance and bravery.
I am bold, and stoic, and calm. And convinced that I am already living a happy ending.
My doctor told me about the ping pong ball in my brain, and then you know what? I went food shopping. And looking for crafts to make my son a crown for Saturday (He's the king bringing gold in the pageant).
It's funny, but life does go on.
No neon light suddenly surrounded me, no muzak version of Amazing Grace playing as I walked my cart down the aisles.
Everyone has a story they are living.
That's what I remind myself.
But if look deeper than that, into the part of my soul that bubbles up when I sit at the keyboard, then I here the sharp crack of splitting ice. It is the glass of me, stretched too thin and breaking.
Quick, pass me the glue, before someone notices.
Or else, let me erase the proof before anyone reads.
I plead to my own weakness, my stumble in faith, and am ashamed.
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