Sunday feels like new shoes. Yesterday felt like no shoes.
Meal attendance was kept to a minimum, fighting off attempts to talk, we sat at a right-angle, the five of us and I made six. The table was a thousand squares of mirror set in blue wood and all around lay artefacts and remnants of last year and further, of four years and a distance regaled not by the absence of the girl who broke me. Vegetables and burnt rice with pockets of celery and potato helped a little.
A wasting of a day, hours become debilitating to themselves, often shaped when you have things to do; the times when one should enjoy the release from occupation and obligation. It is these days that implode and become a faction of themselves, highlighting the need for a revolution against their own tawdry, punitative selves.
A phone call earlier in the day spoke of intimidation, of a fall down the stairs and of times which caused tears. These were hardships. I didn’t understand, because I wasn’t there, I couldn’t understand and they wouldn’t let me. The family rocked with a practical joke and the spring counted down as missiles were hurled at the windows and we spoke of journeys and how diaries don’t function like diaries.
I struggle for an outlet. My ways out are really ways in.
So, no-one can blame me for walking away, leaving them at bus stops, knowing that they’ll write and talk and dance until the small hours while I trudge home trying to lose a headache I caused.
When I get home there are no letters or presents, which for once is a relief. I have many durable habits and the long walk home is one of them. I distress easily at the sight of a silk shirt wrapped in brown paper, or a book made with parchment and cotton, a threaded spine with old envelopes as cover. The threat of ‘do not read this’ is a finely balanced one.
To know of not knowing. The distance I walk. The rubbish I write.