Swords and Bridges

I lay, sleepless, on this warm summer night. Long past midnight, the dew on the grass spots my back. I reflect on how much better I could have done.  How much better she could have done.  I try to live my life without regret, but in such a foggy mind such as this, how can one not brood upon past transgressions.

Preconceived notions poison our thoughts on war, on love, on actions and inactions.  We battle in our everyday lives.  Whether it is with the sword or the pen.  Words are just like the sword.  They can be sharp, with a fine edge, ready to do battle.  Likewise, they can be dull and rusty, out of use.  I was once told that a man is more likely to cut himself with a dull knife as opposed to a sharp one.

I have come upon the conclusion that every word spoken must have a true purpose. Every day I hear the gossip of women, slander upon friends as well as enemies.  Every day I hear the sexual remarks of men, imaginary musings that will never have a resolution.  I will be the first to admit that I have participated in both in the past.  But to what gain?

Here I lay, half heartbroken and lovelorn, half determined with a firm resolve.  Dew spots my back like the remarks of others spot my conscience.

She told me “I love you too.”

But I don’t believe her.

-D.S. McKie