It’s morning, it’s colder than yesterday yet it is raining… Somehow, I feel like I’ve slept just the right number of hours, even though I woke up at dawn because I left the blinds open and the dimmest light bothers my slumber. After having sorted out the ordinary matinal routines I brew some coffee, drank it quietly, ready to leave for work, sucking on a rolled-up cigarette made of leftover tobacco. I wish I had spent more time in the shower, I could barely warm up as the creeping cold air stung the skin the water wouldn’t cover, the towel was still damp from lastnight and it was too early so no blues were sung during shower. I tried humming but my soar throat could only let me churn the wounds. I usually hum during the day, at work, in disquiet, while writting, editing, designing and publishing. Perhaps I should treat myself with a cup of globe amaranth tea, for both my soar throat and chronic hedonism.
Not being able to speak has it’s advantages. It’s proved most efficient at avoiding danger, at times saying nothing is prudent, so much that being as angry as I’ve been for a while now I’ve been wanting to slay with drastic words anyone who dares standing in my way. Until the sun shines in hell, no words will sound out of this mouth, not a word will feel, not a feeling will be felt.
Until their return, when they reach the surface of the muddy rain pool and shine back to the sun, I shan’t speak but of joy, to sweeten my over capacity suffering and carve a totem of redemption on the edge of my sorrow.