For a while now,
I've been wearing house slippers that are way too big for me.
Firsthand experiencing the dangers of seeking (and knowing) too much,
and finding out, rudely, unceremoniously,
curiosity can kill more than just the cat.
While exciting to taste the fruity slurps of seemingly full-knowledge,
the satisfying crunch of acknowledgement,
like punching holes through a thick stack of warm copy paper,
the thrill of cliff jumps can culminate
into bum-first crashing into the deceptive deep.
Nobody warns you.
That the water is always shallower;
swallowing life too fragile to keep.
No one explains that the depth is a trick.
That the more that you dig, the less it will stick.
Hunger loud from the tum;
buns left in the breadbasket: none.
And thread count of those slightly expensive sheets?
No reliable guarantee of sleep.
Long story short,
if worry is the thief of joy;
self awareness is the enemy of miracles.
And so the slippers go into that unopened shoe cupboard, unused,
where their waiting feels quieter than it should.