Journalism

I didn't know who you were. What you looked like or where or when we would meet. I certainly didn't know why life makes us jump through the hoops of who what where when why before we finally land on some peace.

And I won't ever profess to understand how we do it.

And none of it fits into all these bags I've picked up along the way. I've tried to stuff you in the smallest of pouches and I've sat, swimming, in the biggest black dark of an entirely too large sack.

So I guess I'll just lay them down here, next to you. All these bags. I'm tired of holding them. So I'm going to put them here, next to your feet.

And for some reason, when I said I'd pick them up again soon, you said you'd help me.

And for some reason, I believed you.

So then I let you peek inside one of them and you didn't recoil from the snakes. And you pretended not to notice the small glimmer of gold I had hidden in a tiny, well protected pocket. Maybe you didn't even believe me when I said I stole it. That I was a dangerous, wanted woman with poisonous snakes. But you let me believe you did.

I try to look at all this objectively sometimes. Like a journalist, I wonder about who what where when why we are. I am no thief. You are no hero. We've barely a plot, but when it comes down to it, you're the first one who makes me unafraid to burn my notebooks and throw out all my pens.