Same clearing as last time, strangely stark and comfortingly familiar. I found myself engaged in it again. As I took off the backpack, I felt on my back the dampness of the burden I had carried, but didn’t care–I had carried it so long, from so far, and I was glad to have the weight lifted, even if the perspiration was a portent. Opening the zipper, taking out the blanket, I noted the sameness of the entity–it was rolled up, containing everything I had brought, just like last time.

But there were no clouds hanging, no rains apparently imminent. I perceived this as encouragement, knew I was doing this for my own good, for the sake of truth and honesty. Slowly unfurling it, careful not to disrupt its insulated contents, despite its slowness, it had the feeling that I was ripping off a band-aid, and we’d soon discover if that adhesive was keeping my blood or words or emotion from spilling out. The unrolling made it seem like a cliche or flower about to bloom, or quickly wither. Whichever it was, it would be soon. I waited for whatever, and found, if not what I’d hoped, then what I’d expected.

Precedent becomes a pattern you can’t control until you face certain things about life or about yourself, and just because you know you deserve better and will likely someday find it doesn’t stop this familiar feeling from taking over and convincing you that this is the way you’re destined to forever be.

What is it about? What isn’t it about? Nothing and everything. No one and everyone. Me. And not me, whoever me is or I am. It’s about work and love and the abundance and lack of both thereof. It’s about wanting more than you have, and feeling guilty for not being satisfied. It’s about free verse and free writing and free bread crusts that you cling to as essential, comforting carbohdyrate replacements for what you’re really craving, whether it’s love or creativity. And its about being so overwhelmed that you lie down on the checkerboard tablecloth or blanket you’ve brought all the way from home, and hope that the ants will carry you toward a solution, or at least, away from your problems.

The trick with ants is that there are some things that they can’t carry away. And so you’re left there, on your back, staring at clouds that shift maddeningly, eluding definition, but always seeming the same.