It's funny how life comes full-circle. Not once, but often. Every day. It seems I can't run fast enough to connect the ends. Point A meets point B only to realize that life has concluded this race long before I began to run.

I can't say what I mean, I can't stray from this path, I can't seem to remember how I got here in the first place. But if I know anything it is that I can't be a last resort. I can't be the thing that makes you throw up your arms, purse your lips, and say "Well, why not."

Today was an expected day. We fought over notebooks, the dogs, breakfast, the mail, phone calls, and dinner. I seethed and you laughed. I wonder if you'll ever know how much of me dies at the sound of your laughter at such a time. Do you see how much I hurt?

That tiny ball of pain sits in my stomach, waiting for a name. And as the day progresses every little sign that something just isn't right with the world stirs in my belly and the pain grows. It festers. Baby, all isn't right with the world. All isn't right with the life we're choosing.

Night comes and I lie awake counting the circles on the ceiling. Wondering what strike of the A.M. will bring you home. What will I smell on your breath? Will I have to pretend to sleep to escape more fights about dogs and paper and silly opinions on the decline of musical talent in the world today.

I can't say what I mean. I can no longer think like a child. The dreams that once were ... they were foolish. And this absence of innocence has made me into something old and weary.

Running, I see life blow by me with lightening speed. It breaks the tape so far ahead that suddenly I wonder what the point is in finishing this race anyway.

That tiny little ball is about four millimeters this week. Someday it will have dreams that are beyond foolish but he will believe. And so will I.