Halfway House Through Shaving It Came

Maybe I am only smoke and mirrors.  Or a bad analogy.

In the car on the way to work I dream up all sorts of clever gambits and meaning.  A rekindling of a fire that feels dead most of the time.  Twenty minutes into my day it is doused again.

Or better - like a dream you try to repeat to yourself as you fumble for the light switch in the bathroom, you are one interruption away from losing the whole of an oral history.  Literature in the original ancient Greek.  Castles in the original sand.  Yesterday's seas in today's raging gale.  You flip the switch to the ceiling fan instead, and drop the cap to the toothpaste rather too close to the toilet.  Rinse it?  Toss it?  Hydrogen peroxide?

There's your mirror.  Look into it.  Puffy.  Not S. Combs.

Why try to reach back for that dream?  Here is the day of reaching forward to the next.