small sacrifices

Over there was the woman and that other woman and the girl. Like peas in a pod, yes, one long pod, long enough for that woman to fit in. Enough is enough, though one's thoughts can't easily be heard, so fear is no object.

Having returned from displaying past prospects, how heinous, enough, she lets herself return to the desired, or so is desired, object of her attention. Behind ticks the machine of her true attention, wrapped up in his machinations, his melodies a drive for his soul. What is that? What soul is to be decided on, one of non-importance, for the audio quality is quite well. I myself cannot match such skill, and yet my heart definitely can, I think, but enough. But the mechanical pieces click on and on, so perfect, and yet that alone is simply not enough, but enough. What is this?

Her neck is craned back, the people all have their own problems to deal with. The fiddler now approaches as I retreat, a drive of passion but of motive, enough. To wait, that is simply the charm. Yes. Yes.

She is quite the pretender. Enough. You have your own problems to deal with.

Sometimes the problems, those problems, they are so frustrating, no, so confusing. What is it? I have often asked myself this question, and I have only been presented in return with despair and no desire to gain understanding. Envy, that is what I have for the problems of others, no, those problems are merely hindrances, impasses to be passed. Is that what attitude I ought to have?

I wonder, enough. At times I am so amazing for not mouthing my pain, enough. It was that first word you read, and now you stand on street corners in your mind; it is with shame that the great fall. Enough.

By now the playing has quieted. Let us level the playing field, and let us fail at what we are trying to do. At those times, my failure surprises me.

One by one they are decreasing in number. What exactly are numbers, anyway? There is now quite an imbalance, fewer annoyances, enough. You have no basis for any of this. Where is it? That object you have called the heart, that does not click, mechanically, but nor does it teeter drunkenly, but at best, when it knows to be saved, will leap and bound to the tune of the Spirit.

And now the number is far less, even in flavor, for the past flavor was the flavor of flavors, just as a collection of collections, but now the flavor is sweet, maybe agreeable. Enough. Rhetoric is overboard in this situation, and so are your opinions.

And in order to accept things, I will need to do as I have seen for my heart is not well nutritioned. Feed it scraps of emotion and productions of my foolishness, and it will do as it does now, lie desolate, but with the fodder of text, of words, I can hope grow fruit there. Enough. Fruit is not bait.

Enough.

An entirety lost.

To place my soul where it is headed, even on its own, what is that? Tom-foolery. The sounds of olden times, classic, they waft around the room and it is revealed that not all are cut from the same cloth. Instead of this red stitch here, a yellow weave is in place over there. And so on. And so time wears on.

Physical comfort is nothing to the comfort received in the heart, but what source for that comfort is truly appropriate? What is real comfort? Is that enough? What is enough?

All I know is that my heart throbs only to certain tunes, and well, that her's does as well. Maybe I will do a little jig, for I am oft comforted by the presence of physical dependence, a mirror for my own dependence, the crutch that my heart can lean on and still dance freely with joy. And that is enough.