...and the moonlight, and the daylight - neither of them brought me insight to my puzzle. I sit upon the crossroads, with a couple of days sweat dried upon my skin, and the five o'clock shadow well surpassed on my chin.
Which way do I go? Need I stay silent, and keep up some corrosive white lie - the only hurt pride, so far, is my own? Or, do I sing like a canary, to be mocked and judged?
When I consider how the past has played out, I have repeatedly been the canary, and never the worm.
I have thrown cautious reservation into the gutter, and written through reams of paper, just in the hope of being heard. Yet, that sinking feeling in my gut is that no one wants my feelings, my observations, my speeches - for they think that they've had far too many to bear, already.
I am reminded of how brother and I would chide my dad: "Not another monologue!"
...and so, feeling that I wore out my welcome with speeches, I suffer at this crossroads in silence. I play with the jagged pieces of my past, making my brain bleed out so many fears and projections. None of them look like a worthwhile path. Looking around, nobody else seems to be looking at my crumpled form, upon the corner of Dishonesty Road and Disgrace Place.
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