He reads my little text dedicated to his goddaughter’s firstborn and a happy little light blinks on my phone.
‘You are so talented’ he writes proudly. I can’t reply. It turns into one of those messages that ends a conversation rather than starting one, without either person meaning for it to.
Talented, he wrote. It feels good and then again doesn’t. He is full of love and full of appreciation but I don’t know whether I can receive this. Because every day I see and think things that I want to put to words, black on white, but I can’t. There are images all around the city I am dying to describe; brittle, icy-thin bits of beauty to snap up, lovingly keep, tenderly type up. Every night.
When I was young there was so much time for play. I decisively avoided school work, even during school hours, to splash around in frivolous and impractical play. Now my children play and my fate is to chase after them with school work they neglect to be able to do what they love. And it’s alright, mostly, but then sometimes it’s hard not to scream, LET ME THINK ABOUT THIS, slow down for God’s sake! If I can’t write, who am I, and what am I doing here? Pathos alert!
I haven’t had my hair cut in ages and I DON’T CARE. I don’t care how I look or how I don’t look or whether I fit in or whatever.
I have last been to the stables last June. Because if I broke my wrist, then what? With a sprained ankle or worse, what use would I be to anyone? But well, I don’t really care. I’m afraid of horses again now anyway.
Let me play!
(Let me write)
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