Ice cream

The ice cream is frozen, and so am I. Solid as stone I sit here and can’t move forward with my life. After all this time, you would think that I’d have this living thing down-pat. If I leave the ice cream out long enough, it will become pliable, and then eventually melt into mush ready to roll down the side of a mountain or a table. Am I too stubborn to become pliable? It is my way to muscle my way through things or, alternately, to curl up in a ball and refuse to face the world. I hate the fact that I have to make a living, that I have to get up and go out into the world to make money in order to have a roof over my head and food in my belly. I don’t know how to make a good living. I see beautiful houses that I can’t afford to live in and I wonder what I did wrong that I don’t have enough money to live there. It all comes down to money. What is this thing called money? And why does it not like me? Maybe money listens to that part of me that doesn’t care, that part of me that’s happy with a bowl of melting ice cream, colorful flowers in the garden, and a few animals to love.