My Daily bAbbles

There are times that something aches inside and you want to write. Write with the wish, or the hope, that the words might take some of the burden away. The keystrokes sound, like balsam to the soul. Sweet, as sparse notes from a symphony. But why the misery, why the sorriness, why the burden?

There are millions or zillions of reasons why you should worry, me, you, everybody. Like death,  hunger, cancer. But for mistakes? For mistakes of someone else? Or for the wonder, or whether those mistakes are tangled with yours, but muffled inside a cloud and blinding you so.

Curtain down.