Sometimes time is spinning a little too quickly, a little too freely. You think you should say something, but you bite your tongue. You let it go. You’ll bring it up later. Sometimes you want to avoid confrontation. An hour later you’ll wish you had attacked, you’ll relish the possibility of the moment, burn with regret.

Am I supposed to make everything right? Am I supposed to say the words to everyone I know to get them to snap out of their own little world? Or am I the one living in my own little bubble, thinking I understand it all, thinking I have the clarity, the authority to know what’s right and who’s wrong and just how it’s supposed to work. I’m so self-righteous. Pride is the king of all sins, and it loves the title, too.

I can’t fix the world, and I don’t think I’m supposed to. But I’m not supposed to sit on my hands, getting drunk on prime time TV and late night reruns. There’s enough pain in my own circle of friends and relatives, but what am I supposed to do? Soak it up like a sponge and hope someone remembers to wring me out, hope they don’t leave me lying in the sink, bloated and full of questions and hurts and doubts, yearning to be wrung dry, wrung clean. Am I supposed to stand up and be the preacher man, calling a spade a spade, or am I supposed to put a hand on your shoulder and be there for you, loving and supporting like a friend. A good friend has to be both, don’t they? Or do you bite your tongue and let the bitterness take root? It seems easier than speaking my mind and facing the consequences. But at least the consequences are readily apparent, they don’t take deep root in your heart and come back to haunt you when you find that you can’t weed them out.

I’m tired of being a sponge.