Little Bill

"No." she said. Plenty of times. It rings in my ear like the incessant buzz my alarm clock made this morning when I didn’t want to wake up. I never want to wake up anymore. Not that dreaming is any better.

I dreamed that I had someone to point a finger at, someone who pulled at my strings. Someone other than me to blame. It was the Devil. Really. And what you could see, in this abstracted gap between two perfect surfaces, was this black muddy sludge that we dug out. It was my corruption, the residue of the effects the Devil had had on me. And with it I could say, "Look! Here is the source of my actions!" I could point a finger at something else.

But I woke up. And there was no one else to blame. Not even my cats were beside me this morning. I was alone.

It’s comforting, I have to admit, to think of the world and those who inhabit it in terms of black and white. To think that there is only right and only wrong and never the twain shall meet. Even this analogy, which desires to embrace the grey area, neglects it. I know there’s no black and white, and she knows it too.

I wronged. She wronged. No one means any harm. It doesn’t mean harm isn’t caused. How do you atone for that? When your actions clearly hurt those you care about? You’ve done it. Everyone’s done it. You tell me. I’ve got nothing. It just goes against my grain for me to walk away.

I am the pot. And I’ve met the kettle plenty of times.