And Sometimes Monsters Don’t Matter

colortimeThere are still monsters who find space in my mind. Even after clearing away all the dust and fog, they still find places to hide. They love the shadows; the dark places I fear to tread. And when I least expect it, they reveal themselves and beg to play.

Today was one such day. I had been battling these monsters through poetry. Struggling to keep them from taking hold and tossing me down a well of depression.

While I wrote (during my lunch hour) a woman came into the office with her children. She had an appointment. She set her kids up on her phone with a movie just before being called into another office.

The children were young. Similar in age to one of my kids. I could tell already the movie wasn’t going to hold their attention.

I set myself aside and engaged. Asked their names, their ages, what they like doing. In the course of the chatter they shared, in not so many words, how their world was falling apart. My heart melted.

I guided the conversation to what kinds of things they liked to do and what brings them joy. I then pulled out some extra pens and index cards. We drew, played games, and watched a few episodes of “Super Why.”

In that moment, I didn’t matter. My monsters didn’t matter. These kids mattered. Giving them a break from the cold reality they faced mattered.

After they left, I looked over the poem I had been working on and scrapped it. The whispers of old ghost didn’t seem so loud. And the monsters vying for my attention just seemed so trivial.

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About Z.

Poetic pipe and cigar enthusiast rifling through the haunted memories of a not so distant past while openly wrestling with faith and God. A rambling writer with the misguided notion that he has something to say. His only redeeming qualities are his wife and children.
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