If experience were thick like pudding, a spoonful could be, theoretically, ladled out to the young.

Medicinal.  ‘Eat this.  It will keep you safe from scraping shins, upon the vast vats of stupid, lying about in the world.’

But it is granite, inedible. Even little bits will crumble, if an attempt is made to preach (When I was your age, I…)

Plain telling’s okay without a piggyback moral. But experience, that slithery shapeless thing,

can’t be passed on. It blanks out, photograph overlit,  printer out of ink.

If a bit slops over by accident, it may be of some use to the onlooker, reader, observer,  but not by intent.

Sometimes, if genuine asking is involved, balanced on one of those chasms in an ice wall  where going ahead or not will change everything,  if the owner of the experience simply describes his bits  as they happened,

then occasionally a crumb may find itself (in entirely different form)  in the other pocket.

Stories, at any rate, are still worth telling, thrown upon the water like bread for ducks. .

Occasionally, here and there, the right bit may make its way to an intended, but this is random,   never willed into being.

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