Musings at the Laundromat

               

 I’m sitting and watching the snow reduce itself to a massive watery mess at the curbside.  The sun is slanted sideways through the evening sky shining directly upon my face through the dusty window.  I feel the warmth of that solar power warm my skin.  It helps to keep my bitter coffee from cooling down as its aroma fills my lungs.  I feel a longing inside.

                The song I hear, speaking words of loss and loneliness.  I wonder what the days ahead hold in store for me.  A bag sits in front of me made of the recycled bits of our past.  That plastic pill holder you threw out, the casing of a syringe from the pharmacy, the bottle of booze in the gutter.  Is that what went into the making of this bag?  I think maybe we’re all made of recycled bits of our parents.  Enmeshed, mingled, molded into something new and perhaps not so different.  After going through the crushing and grinding, heating, cleansing we are then spit out in our current shape.  Or maybe we’re quite different in our new shiny form.  We were made for an alternate purpose, mistakenly placed amidst the hell that we suffered.  Yes that’s it.  It must have been some universal glitch.  Surely it wasn’t meant to be this way.  For whatever a believer believes in, a divinity of such cruelty should not be allowed to exist.

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