I have to sweep the floor.
They are all over the place.
The minute I walked into the room, there they were.
Remnants of withholding and crumbs of repression scattered in strategic partnership configurations that represent a form of censorship.
I go into my bag of tricks and pull out the last drops of cleansing tact and my portable broom and I sweep away.
This has never been my strong suit.
I don’t like the sweeping part and the tact fills the room with an aroma that disturbs my personality allergies.
Immediately I feel the discomfort that comes when I take on a role that doesn’t suit me well.
On my sleeve full of hearts I reveal what is going on as I traverse the room and pick them up.
My face reveals an even more honest reflection of how I feel, the warts of hypocrisy lining my smile like a bad cold sore.
I move carefully and occasionally hear the crunch under my feet as a misstep leads me to go rogue in my disciplined approach to the room.
I just don’t do this well. I never have and I don’t think I ever will.
At my age, this is something I should have mastered already but when I meet the fence of dense, I rarely cross it.
And, when it comes to this I choose to welcome the density that my stubborn brain and apathetic neuromuscular coordination refuse to embrace.
I guess my sweeping inability and my flawed dance through this debris is a choice.
It is deliberate and calculated.
I choose to never walk, unless I am absolutely forced to…