the big things in life are easy to deal with: they chunk together and stand proud; they can be hit – or missed. they either crush one, or make one taller. the big things, the landmark decisions, the global pain, the ultimate losses are easy.
it is the small things that are difficult to manage. the little green monster of whatever it is. the tiny shard of backstabbing. the minuscule fragment of self-centredness or arrogance. the figment of imagination, the drop of unforgiveness. the lint of not letting go.
the small things boggle one down. they cannot be conquered, because they fight not. they do not attack as much as harry. they are hard even to be seen with the naked eye. they not so much destroy as undermine. they lead by a trail of crumbs. they trickle little by little.
and then one morning they have accumulated. the mire is complete, the trap sprung, the shale falls.
and we all wonder why this and why that. nothing happened, exactly. we said nothing. we committed nothing.
then why is that soul now dead, its fire gone, its substance buried?
not the big things. not the big things.