I feel like I’ve been living in a simple home in a complex world. The world is relatively safe, so none of the doors lock and the windows are usually open. It’s peaceful, it’s quiet, it’s under control, but..Every morning an old man barges into my kitchen, plops the new day down on my table and says “can you fix it?”
For 47 years my answer, every morning, has been “of course I can fix it, just leave it with me.”
For the last year however, my answer has been an exhausted and sorrowful “no.” And the days, and the problems, and the issues have just kept piling up higher and higher. There’s no room to sit at my table, no room to eat, and the days have overflown onto the floor.
It’s not that I’m afraid the days will fill the house and I’ll have to move, I’m afraid that the old man will someday give up and stop coming.