Post Script

But there is dullness, too, and gaping time. As much as there is that constant exercise in quiet and contentment, the unaccustomed mind finds the (oftentimes) unfamiliar silences a little disconcerting. What of the previous life spent asking and chasing and turning things over and over until there are only more questions, more distances to run? What of the sleepless nights, the burning days?

But I have books to read, and music to play.

I have promises to keep.

Your promises:

lackluster, empty,
as brittle as your will,
dust in my hands.

I dust off my hands.

No in-betweens

There can be method to the madness, but a choice has to be made.

Neither mid-way nor half-way is a good place to be. Something either is, or is not. I will not stand for half-baked, or halfhearted. A half-life will not sit well with me. Neither will half-tones, because there is no pleasant shade between black and white.

Half is not a good word. I have yet to come to terms with halves.