A barb in the flesh of the psyche

“Then the little barb in the flesh of the psyche pricks: mine or your, or someone else’s: we can take turns hooking, or drawing in.” —Someone Else

We do. We take turns hooking, or drawing in. We wax and wane on the surface, in the sand, on the riverbed, against the rocks. Take your metaphorical pick. We choose to believe. In ourselves, in each other, for the minute, for a year. Sometimes an unknown hand must lead the way and you’re content to let someone else direct the rise of the tide for awhile. With the pull of my moon face, I know I am. At times when storms ravage the shore, it’s simply difficult to see for all the wind and water and the shaky ground. And then it’s just good to have something to hold on to. Trite? Maybe. Though things only become trite when we repeat their distilled essence of truth to the point of puking. So I won’t utter another word. Just stand and wait. For the calm breeze to gently tussle your foamy words anew.