The black dog has been sniffing around my ankles again drip feeding its poison into my mind. I woke up crying this morning; a sad dream, a nightmare, I don't remember, I just knew I didn't want to get up; wished I hadn't woken up.
I can not guess its coming, it appears to have no reason. Nothing bad has happened, except another rejection from Fiction Feast. My novel is / was coming along nicely, now I can't bear to pick it up.
Even my cat Moo knows something is wrong. At home she follows me everywhere, the bedroom, the bathroom, the garden, she is constantly at my side nudging and pawing me.
I am simply going through the motions of life, not caring if I reach the end of the day. When I am in the company of others, I step into a new skin and no one is any the wiser. I am pleasant, chatty and friendly, but I am dying inside.
I looked at my beta blockers, three boxes of 28, more than enough. I held them in my hands, all of them, a glass of water at my side until a piercing meow broke my train of thought. I dropped the boxes. How could I be so selfish? Who would look after her and her brother?
My children have grown up, flown the nest, they are independent, have lives of their own shaped by happiness, optimism and hope.
But my life has no meaning. I have nothing to look forward to, simply more of the same. I have little to show for my 48 years. No personal achievements, no home of my own, nothing. I have no one to talk to, no close friends, no one to confide in and so I commit my feeling to the written page, I am after all a writer.
No comments:
Post a Comment