Bad Company

What comes up?  If we let it.  Which we might not, when it pops up at the corner of our eye, waving for attention, looking altogether untrustworthy.  That smile, it's off -- crooked, trying a little too hard.  Yes, yes, look at me, I'm here, I'm real, I'm of your now.  Would you deny me?  

That's repression, you know.  Because if that one has come around,  it is what is.  Now.  Was, but won't go away, so yep -- now.  Except now only as thought --  the thought we're having now.  Which isn't the now of here.   Isn't that present sort of now.  More like some trickster now. 

So nope, nope, not getting in, not into this here and now.  We can't hear you.  Can't see or touch.  Whew.

It's smug though.  I'll be back.  We aren't fooled, thinking otherwise.  Sort it out, or deal with it in some other lifetime.  

We close our eyes and feel it.  That ache.  It's deep and all too familiar, yet elusive, like a dream chased as light of day intrudes.  Name it, name it ... but we cannot.    

Afraid?  Not that.  Ashamed, maybe?  It's dense, that feeling, an ugly, irritating mote in the eye.  No, not ashamed.  Rejected.  Why hast thou forsaken me?  

If that thing comes around again, let's set up another glass.

We won't feel so alone.