Another day, another blank page, another gray sky. If it wasn’t so warm, I’d say it looks like snow, because that’s what this sky would mean, usually, in November in Chicago.
But what is usual is no longer usual.
In so many different ways.
As the people who jocularly walked us into the term to come start to realize what they’ve done and what, precisely, will happen to them, most of us who shouted our loudest into the wind are essentially stone.
We will not be moved.
There will be no empathy, there will be no scrambling to help. There will be no sympathetic nodding, no hand-holding, no soothing pats on the back.
They wanted to be on their own and they are on their own. They were confident they knew best so let them find out for themselves. I don’t care.
We don’t care.
It’s a never-ending dance, this plunging into the fire, while demanding we stand ready with the extinguisher. Not this time.
They can order their own and make sure they’re filled. Or they can just burn, as they said they wanted to.
The music is finished. We’ve flipped on the lights to reveal the stale crust of the night squalor, and we’ve taken our jackets and called a Lyft.
There are no more rounds, the bartender is gone, and so soon will we be, cold and unreachable.
Stone.
There is no need to flap about who is picked or what they’re going to do, we know who will be picked and what they are going to do, we’ve been warning and warning and warning of it. Now that’s it’s here, it barely gets a glance.
Yes, they got their circus but they are clowns performing tricks to the audience of each other. And soon, when they fall from the trapeze, when they scrape their knees and their elbows, when they get ripped off with a souvenir that immediately breaks, at most I will muster a shrug.
They had their chance.
They made their messy, sleazy beds.
And we all know what they can do with them.
Have a great Friday and a wonderful weekend.
A Bit to Read 
Leave a comment