A post made of sapience.

Depth is not something to be measured.  It is not calculated in inches or miles, but the fragments of eternity we choose to invest in something valuable.  It is ten percent shadows and dark words, but ninety percent honesty and the warm glow of the most commonplace sunlight imaginable, with a scattering of clouds and a drizzling of rain and the lightest touch of the year's first snow flurry.  Depth is not wrought by distance, but a tilting of the world so that what once was a shallow, pale pool gradually seeps into cool, fertile black earth and grows a tree or two, with cherry blossoms and usually a season of fruit.  It isn't lack of compatibility that dams the pool; it's lack of a shovel with which to dig out the mud.  It's neglect.  It's fear that keeps us cowering in the dying red sunlight, never knowing that if we could just muster on through the night that the ever-changing sunrise is more beautiful than the neverendingneverendingneverendingneverending sunset, that depth breathes more wonder than the mere prettiness of faint surface chatter.  Investment comes back with interest, while buried treasure just attracts parasites.  No plumb line can fit through the soul.  Depth is not a recipe, but a sure and steady madness…or so it seems, even to the most illogical of observers (like me?  Sometimes?).  It is the electric light in a land without power outages—no candle to flicker, to dim, to burn out into nothing, leaving only dim smoke of memory behind.  It's the fuzzy socks that are so cozy you want to keep them forever even once they're wearing thin.  It's an analogy in Kiersten's plumbed-out brain this Christmas Eve…