There's been a lot of conversations about the days when the sun leaves our skies. We settle ourselves in an imaginary womb-like state hoping that we feel good about something, anything. We don't want help, we refuse your well-pleaded, well-tried efforts. We are in a black room which grows smaller and smaller till we are the same size as it is. Yes, we fit now. A snug little bleak room. We embrace it. The light hurts our eyes. We need a hand, but we can't ask for help, because you might raise your eyebrows, pucker your lips, look at the ceiling, smile, blame us, shrug and say - oh come on, we all have problems.
We certainly don't enjoy it, and we hope you can sit with us in silence in our rooms with no sun.
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4 comments:
feels like the bell jar.
It is.
You should write a book someday..
@Puff: That was a lovely thing to say, Rai. Thank you :) And you too woman, keep writing.
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