Pulling Strings

I’m trying too hard.

I feel like a wooden puppet with a big smile painted on its face. Stretching from ear to ear, it really has nothing to do with happiness, or mirth at all. Still, it isn’t an option.

Without this smile, the puppet is worthless. No one wants a puppet with tired eyes and vacant expression, unless it can somehow be turned into a comical thing and comedy is hard to write. Everything is too hard to write right now.

I can pull poetry out of love, sarcasm out of anger, even parody out of desperation, but I cannot pull comedy out of depression. Necessity pulls the strings that keep me moving and that smile makes everyone think all is well.

All really is well, I just can’t see it in this moment.

I find myself preaching the old sermons, beating the same nail on the head over and over again, but that nail does not process the words, so I might as well be hitting myself on the head. I try to tell myself to let it go, that this particular nail is already performing way beyond what I ever dreamed possible, so I should just be happy.

But I’m not. I want so much more for it. That wanting jeopardizes everyone’s happiness, but if I don’t try, what will happen to this nail when it becomes old and bent and rusty? I won’t be around then. Who will take care of it when it cannot take care of itself?

What was that old expression my father used to use? “Allah takes care of orphans, widows and fools?” I wish I believed that. I’ve seen a lot of evidence to the contrary. So I guess I just keep saying the old things over and over and maybe, somewhere along the line, some of the wisdom will soak in where it’s needed. It has in the past.

I don’t know what else to do.