If I could be imprisoned for my thoughts, I would probably be incarcerated for life. Of course, those thoughts alone have imprisoned me already.
Who am I? I am nobody, and for that reason, I am everybody. I am a spouse and a divorcee. I have been a star employee, and I have been fired. I am someone’s child and I have a child of my own. I have been part of the middle class sprung up from the lower class and have fallen again within the grasp of poverty. Therefore, my story is your story and you are imprisoned right along with me.
Longing
I t is nearly one in the morning. I should be asleep, but I am not. I should at least be working on my novel, but I cannot bring myself to working on that either. How can I write a romance when my husband will not even stay home or touch me when he is? Perhaps my writing comes from my longing. It is what I wish for. I want a happy ending, the kind that is found in a novel, but there does not seem to be one in my future. There is no climatic event. It is more like a dull end to a poorly written novel. There is no resolution. It just ends.
It is strange to long for something that you claim you do not want, but as much as I can openly deny it to all of my family and friends, I want this relationship. I want this man. I want him to want me. I feel empty and alone. I cry when I see couples obviously in love. I cry when I see a man taking his wife’s hand in his and leading her in prayer. I want this so badly that I have to look away. I know that I will never have what they have and I want it. I desperately want it.
(To be continued…)
No comments:
Post a Comment