The following is something I wrote some time ago. I think about this passage every now and then because whenever I'm in a situation where I'm trying to fix something that isn't mine, I have to remind myself to keep my focus on me and let others handle their own stuff.
I see him exhausted from the effort. Holes, nothing but holes. The hurried movement of the shovel to fill them up. All this time spent filling up holes he doesn't recall ever having dug. Maybe they weren't his to begin with, but they are his now. No one wants to own a hole. A hole is only appealing once it's no longer a hole. A filled hole. A sewn one. Or something on top to conveniently hide it. I see him fixing. It's no longer relevant to him just how those holes became holes. There is no time to understand. Only fill. When there is no emptiness, he can rest. Maybe, once the land is level again, the others will come back. I know they won't - they won't because half of those holes were theirs. They gave them to him. No one wants to own a hole.
A hole could represent a number of things I'm sure - the past, skeletons in the closet, fear, insecurity, someone else's baggage. I find that once in a while I write these things without really consciously thinking about what they mean. I'm creating songs or poetry, and then several months later, I'll excavate and find them again and know exactly what I meant and what I'd been going through. Hindsight being 20/20 and all that. It's intriguing though how when you're in the middle of something - a hole if you will - sometimes you have no idea what you're doing there or what it all means.
