Bugs

I feel bad the conversation always seems to focus on me--what I do, how I feel, what I think. He probes me with questions and walks me through my thoughts. He interprets the things I say and pauses while I look for answers. He knows me because we are "foils" of one another, he says. 

I feel bad the conversation always seems to focus on me.

Or does it?

"Stand in the mulch," he tells me. "I am you, and you are him. Look up at me. Do you have a foundation?"

"No." 

"You can't pull a man out of the sand."

He does not tell just me this. He tells himself this. He does not just walk me through my problems. They are the objective manifestations of his own. My life is the movie that speaks to him. His advice gives him time to think. 

And makes me feel small, so small. It is harsh. Because he knows. And I need to be humbled. He can only tell me, because he's been here before. 

We sit on the front step and watch bugs wiggle their vulnerable bodies along the concrete walk--a city of activity we could crush with our feet at any moment. 

I cannot stop looking at all the bugs. 

"You need to pray." 

"I do." 

"No. Water your pillow."