This Bitter Earth.

I have loved a lot of things lately.

The sesquicentennial of the Gettysburg Address.

Learning the origin of "The Princess Pat."

Reading a memoir of Malcolm X.

But one important thing hasn't made that list:

people.

It seems that the list of people

whose lives inherently interest me

has decreased dramatically in size.

If that sounds horrible,

it is.

I used to be shy

because I didn't know

that I had it in me

to be otherwise.

Then, I learned how to make friends,

and I had so much love in me

that I'd hold anyone's hand

that was near enough to grab.

And now,

I don't talk to others

not because I can't,

but because I don't want to.

But as it turns out,

not wanting to for a long time

makes you feel like you can't.

And if my life is like the dust

that hides the glow of a rose,

what good am I?

What good am I?

Heaven only knows.

...

This story doesn't have a moral

or an adage

or a word of advice at the end.

I don't know how to fix this.

But I still have faith

that somewhere between all these poles,

there's a happy nook to live in.