There are days we don't finish. I move on without them because I have to, because there is nowhere to keep them until I can finish. But they come back to me; they must stay somewhere. It might be like some journal entries which don't appear here, there are some days not represented in the list of dates, though no day has passed without a trial at this keyboard. Those unpublished entries return unbidden, like unfinished days.
Some days remain incomplete, and it is not the tasks we leave undone, or the hopes unrealized, or the challenges we meant to meet but somehow didn't. Days do not begin and end on the basis of such things. What matters, I think, is love and fear, and some days are never done for the loving we were not brave enough to do.
I should change that headline up there from 'journal' to 'Lamentations', but someone already wrote that book. And there is no justification for the self-absorbed whining that I do, but still there must be a reason. I'm not seeking to place blame, just searching for a way out.
Of course my days are full of doors--escape routes from this safe-house--but I don't go. All roads must lead to somewhere I do not want to be, and I know I'll have to change my mind on that. But in the meantime, wouldn't it be nice if some handsome spy, enmeshed in some serpentine plot and in flight from some cruel enemy, were persued right into my hiding place, and inevitably, into my arms. I suppose he would not be that good a spy to need salvation from such an inadvertant rescuer as me, but then again, it's not a spy I want, particularly. I just want someone to rescue, and I know that attitude leads nowhere good.
Maybe the doorways, and the roads beyond, do lead somewhere I won't mind so much. There must be a place for me, a place not hiding.
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