cucumbers and brine

I see the hunger burning in her eye; Any fool could see there's something wrong. You keep pretending not to care, But I will hear you sing a different song...


I've gotten myself into a pickle. In more ways than one.

I've thought it over, talked it over, slept on it multiple times, even prayed about it, and I'm still in a pickle. Usually answers just fall in my lap. Usually I don't have to chose one path or the other. Usually there is only one option.

For someone who is accustomed to freedom and independence, it seems kind of silly that I can't make up my mind as to which direction to go. Playing life by ear is easy to do when there is only one story to listen to.

So instead I wait. I'm going to wait, wait for the wind to blow and awaken my gypsy spirit. Or maybe I'll wait here in Eagle Pass. Or maybe I'll wait back home. Or maybe I'll wait in Colorado.

Either way. I'm waiting for answers. A way out of the pickle. Preferably one without the brine and extra dil.