And you retreated a bit.
But where did you retreat to?
A few books. An easy surf spot. Courts for playing ball.
The single life of simple uncomplexity.
The symbol conversation comes fast and furious, and that overwhelms.
There’s an exhaustion.
Retreat allows for battery recharge, evaluation and a survey of roads ahead.
As if some logic and breathing could offer new control – a hand on the tiller in an ocean that roars.
Maybe the ocean stopped roaring?
If so, there was an ocean you dreamed into froth, and it was joy.
A joy drama crafted by you and your Maya.
With a little sadness, it’s safe to admit – you’re stuck in a rather boring place all the time, and the dream became your own personal Wonderland.
The same way a bloody battlefield becomes Wonderland for the general.
A rugby scrum is joy to those with cauliflower ears.
A cool room of drawers is joy to the mortician.
A theme park for the child.
A candy store rush for the diabetic.
A slap fight for the relationally passionate.
A ponytail pull for the boy in the second row.
An orange meadow for the artist.
A retreat as in a vacation for the life obsessed.
A retreat, as in a fear of what’s unfolding and a clever realization that there’s no stopping that.
So, a retreat from the theater, from Plato’s cave.
Lights turned on, and boogeymans vanished.
Shall you play again?
And what would you like to tussle with?
Perhaps a look-see is enough.
But maybe to tussle like Jack London, not wasting days to prolong them.
Screaming like a fiery meteor using time. No retreat.