With the worn feeling of Monday

With the worn feeling of Monday I’m sitting here, crying my eyes out over my Father- the Impresario- and my Mother- the Manic Depressive. The crying is actually internal because I tire of using my eyes. It is the way with everything at the moment: I begin with such enthusiasm and it trickles away, my mind not able to hold onto it. In fact I can barely sustain my thoughts.

For the past few days the storms and rain have kept me inside, huddled in blankets and coats too big for me. The central heating doesn’t work. It is yet another source of tension. When I can I sneak down to the basement, at least until the storm passes. In the basement it is quiet and no one calls to me or teases me into using my eyes; it can only upset me to see, so I don’t look anymore.

Hearing is something else I can live without. Being deaf means no thunder and harsh words, no prolonged ache in my head. Deaf and blind I could live as a hermit, under the coats and blankets, undisturbed.

Then there is the final touch to add to my seclusion. I will remain mute. Speech is overrated in my opinion. People speak lightly; people speak cruelly; they mock, they scold and on rare moments they praise. It all amounts to nothing. Every other hour they are making a threat or a promise they can’t keep. Therefore I won’t speak. Away from them I won’t utter a word, and if they should talk there’ll be no response.

Instead I allow myself a different form to pour into messily, to surrender and soak in: somewhere to think and make mistakes. I know this is a place that can’t be neglected or harmed. Mondays don’t affect it. Weariness is accepted. That is why I write and always will, not to be an escapist, but because paper is somewhere of my own. Its blankness is something I can fill.