"Why is life so tragic; so like a strip of pavement over an abyss. I look down; I feel giddy; I wonder how I am ever to walk to the end. But why do I feel like this? Now that I say it I don't feel it...Melancholy diminishes as I write. Why then don't I write it down oftener? Well, one's vanity forbids. I want to appear a success even to myself. Yet I don't get to the bottom of it. It's having no children, living away from friends, failing to write well, spending too much on food, growing old - I think too much of whys and wherefores: too much of myself. I don't like time to flap around me..."
Virginia Woolf had said it all many year ago. I could not have found a better echo to my lackluster voice. Using the backspace key more than what appears in font in front, I delete my words wondering if it will delete the pain I feel. Does it always have to be beautiful poetic words to say that I feel crappy. So that people will read it and go "Ah!" Does it have to be in verse so that people care? So that they listen, pay heed and stare? Heart sick and eyes filled up with blue, borrowed words for hollowed desires.
Stolen memories from TV sitcoms and dramas do not fill the emptiness of the day.
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