And the Third One Was Just Right.

This tree sits just outside my backyard.  As you can see, she seeks desperately for some company.  The person who lived here before me shoved a newspaper between the tree and a single post in the fence.  Whenever the wind blows with more urgency than normal, the post makes a terrible sound like an old door opening on its own.  Some days, I think she might break in through the sliding glass door, despite the efforts of the post and the newspaper.  Some days, I feel just like that tree.

That’s it.  That was all I was going to write.  I was about to hit the Publish key and walk away, but then I thought, “Wait, that’s not my voice.  That’s my temporary voice.  The one that sneaks up on me sometimes when I’m tired and thinks I am good at self-loathing.  So, I shut the lid of my laptop with fervor.  Not ever necessary, as I mostly keep it plugged in, but it always feels good, like slamming the door after huffing a silencing insult.  And you all know, that probably never happens to me.  Then, I turned on some Louis CK, poured a second cup of coffee, and now I feel better.  I feel differently about that tree.  Here is my edit:

This tree sits just outside my backyard.  As you can see, she seeks desperately for some company.  The person who lived here before me shoved a newspaper between the tree and a single post in the fence.  Whenever the wind blows with more urgency than normal, the post makes a terrible sound like an old door opening on its own.  Some days, I think she might break in through the sliding glass door, despite the efforts of the post and the newspaper.  Some days, I feel like telling that tree to shut the hell up.

And then I thought, wait, CK may have just rubbed off on me a little too much.  I don’t think that’s my voice either.  So I tried one more time:

This tree sits just outside my backyard.  As you can see, she seeks desperately for some company.  The person who lived here before me shoved a newspaper between the tree and a single post in the fence.  Whenever the wind blows with more urgency than normal, the post makes a terrible sound like an old door opening on its own.  Some days, I think she might break in through the sliding glass door, despite the efforts of the post and the newspaper.  Some days, I feel just like that tree, but when I do, I suppress the feeling by telling my subconscious, as well as the tree, to shut the hell up.

I think I need some more coffee.