i don't like whining. but today i will make an exception.
i miss my bed, my house, my mother, her house, our dog, and having a life.
i've been spending way too much time at work.
i know that there are people who stay at work longer, who do more work, blah-blah-blah.
but that's not the point. i think i'm spending too much time at work. that's it. that's how i see it. that's how i feel.
it's not a problem for me, really. i like what i'm doing so much that most of the time, i'm oblivious of the time. i'm almost always surprised that it's already friday when it seems like it was only monday or tuesday when i checked last.
(this is not going anywhere.)
yet, somehow, i have this weird feeling that i am not at all appreciated. or, probably, i am made to feel like my efforts are unwanted.
* * *
the stage is dark.
and the spotlight is focused on the scars and blemishes--
blinding everyone to everything else.
no flowers, no applause for this jester.
method acting, my ass.
the audience is waiting
the non-paying kibitzers,
watching through frosted glass
and over plastic cages
and waiting--more like praying for
or preying on--
a missed beat
an ad lib
a skipped line
or an impromptu laughter.
the brows are raised
and the claws--unsheathed
ready to pounce on the slightest--read: nonexistent--
all in the name of fictional maternal instincts.
this stage has turned into an operating table
on which i--or the specimen i have become--am lying down.
my head and chest and groin have been cut, opened and spread
i lost my humanity the moment i looked
and let myself be led
onto that sacrificial table
where no soul has ever been saved.
with the last strand of self-respect
i will sew myself up again.
and stand up.
proud. like before.