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One small spat and you transform front room into Bedroom-in-exile

15 Aug

A borrowed line from Mr Ginsberg’s haiku, but it conjures with the mind. It takes you places where you remember. Remember the spat that started your exile to the front-room, pillow and blanket under arm, steaming with anger. Now you stare at the dark ceiling somewhere above you. The couch that you used to love, suddenly lumpy and uncomfortable, pressing into you as a physical reminder of what you should have said, could have said, said? A steam liner blast sounds in your mind. Were you ships in the night? Talking past one another? Talking for one another? What does: “you should know!” mean? Probably should not have asked if it was that time of month. How to know that insanity runs in her side of the family. Should probably have that self censorship circuit in the brain checked, ensuring the mouth is not engaged when the mind is turbo charged with the fight or flight response. Can’t fight her – Can’t live without her. Alone on the couch – the three year old is pouting. Don’t like being on the couch. The ego rears its head and you stay. The soft words that could get you back next to her just don’t want to come. They lurk in the dark, afraid of your steam. Waiting for father time and you think: “He’s a great healer, but a lousy beautician”.    

 
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Posted by on August 15, 2012 in General

 

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