The day is designed to deflect all distractions. No sound. No music. No Internet. No conversations. I abstain from the world. My hands grab a chalk and scratch the blackboard. I drink a cup of matcha instead of coffee. I’ve run out of milk.
I’m afraid of drinking it black…what if I like it? The creamy and white liquid no longer needed to balance out the darkness. It was only few years ago that I cut the sweetness of sugar.
I play back one of past week’s events. She accuses me of putting someone in therapy. How I can live with myself? As if therapy is so terrible. Therapy reserves and protects space for self and nothing else. Nothing else can compete. No deadlines. No children. No parents. No significant others. Nothing else matters at the end of our days.
Focus on the sentient within. Focus on the matters too close to the heart to reveal to the outside world. A safe space to connect and to take care of the soft and bruised inner self.
I take it in. I claim responsibility, and so reflect upon my actions and the effects on those not yet ready for the directness of the truth. How I must learn to deliver the message with wrapping paper decorated with glitter and ribbons… too often promising more than what the box holds.
I used to hate wrapping presents but I do because the recipient expects it. The recipient likes it.
Me? I’m both unromantic and utilitarian. If you must, you can do so with newspaper.
What’s inside matters. Nothing else matters at the end of our days.