The awful ache of being there; mutely aware of the world around you. Lost in loud oblivion. It makes you weep to see the setting sun’s rays high up on a tree. Children play while the world shuts down around them; stealing moments from their happiness. The lonely light in the vast settling twilight; the house barred against the coming night and you are left on the outside, looking in on the world.
Somewhere in the house a teaspoon’s tinkling promises sanity - peaceful brew, antidote to my heart’s death; the bitter ache of a manless home and window-fastening women. Who will brave yet another. Another day.
11th Sept. ’04
8.44 pm
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