Ennui Within the Son

My son complains there is nothing to do, that he is bored to death.

I tell him to study the dictionary.

He ascends to his room upstairs.  I don’t see him for days.

I begin to worry about his absence & he returns

to tell me something, perhaps what he has learned, I hope.

He says, We are the moral liars, of which little is writ of our true selves.

I say, Every single line is connected to every single line.

He says, You invent meaning to suit you.  We all do.  What makes the connections real?

I say, What I wanted you to capture from the exercise was knowledge.

He asks, So why do you snigger above what you have created?

I leave the question unanswered & step outside into the yard.

I realize my son has more potential than I.

But I wonder if he is too serious to ever be content or content others.

Writ is a lovely word.

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