I write in bursts.
I don’t know why.
I bottle it in. And bottle it in.
And suddenly, I can’t keep it in anymore.
It spills out of my fingers and onto the page, like spidery whisperings of my heart.
My heart aches sometimes.
And nowadays, the ache doesn’t run down my face, it… can’t.
Just a constant ache of living.
Like living, REALLY living is so painful that I need to anaesthetise myself oftentimes in a book, a movie, inconsequential acquaintances.
Yes, I’m sure those with real trauma in their lives feel that way.
But that’s not what I’m talking about.
Not that kind of running away.
Its running away, from the painfulness of normal, everyday, mundane life.
Don’t you see it?
How our bodies age softly, quietly. How we walk slowly, and willingly to our graves.
Prisoners in this day to day existence.
How we do by rote, the waking up, the going to work, the breakfast and lunches, while the rest of the world falls apart at our feet.
How we don’t notice the beggars, don’t try to ask how sad their lives really are. Where they sleep at night. And what bugs bite at their feet.
How we don’t ask the doorman, the maid, the waiter, how they get by.
How we don’t look beyond our noses. Coz we are afraid of what we will see.
No, this isn’t a rant against the middle class, bourgeoisie life.
Everyone has a waiter/maid/ someone less fortunate in their lives, they don’t care to ask about. No matter what rung of the social ladder they are on.
Can you hear the sound of the whole world turning their backs on each other?
So they can continue to wake up and go to work.
I do it too.