Knuckle Head

He calls everyone a knuckle head, and it's pretty cute. I hadn't heard that for lots of years, and it reminded me of something a coach might shout at the awkward little league centerfielder when he drops an easy pop fly. It's on my phone, in a message, and it's still cute. I catch myself listening to that phone message, left by that certain someone, again, and again. I am trying to decipher the real meaning, when just what was said, is just what was meant.



Do we play the same games with others' hearts, as we did as teenagers? Sometimes I think we do, but then I start to feel tired. Too tired to even put more effort into the question; more than I already have. At times like this I start to wonder, "Aren't we all too old and tired to play?"



Tomorrow is Friday again, and I have no plans. I have a standing invitation to go with my mom and her friend to an Art Walk in the next town over. She did say that she hoped something more exciting would come up for me, and I love her for that. She's having a good time, I think, watching me continue my search. I sometimes question her regarding the right steps to take, and she she always has ideas about how to proceed. But I end up doing things my way, and sometimes that's good. Other times, however, I find that I should have listened to my mother.

We'll see what happens.