The room next to the kitchen

I'm home. After a year of exile. And I'm writing again. After months of profound life. Being home always let the floodgate opens again, releasing all the torments and so-called creative ideas pouring out like rain in a hailstorm. And yet, the mind refuses to cooperate, and I am dulled into oblivion.

I'm still in one piece, the tears still hold check inside me, the tongue-lashing hasn't started yet. But the mood is sour, albeit the festive air, and I know as a crow knows it's next meal that it is forthcoming. True as toasted toads. Not that I would want to have any.

I have one week. One week to remember it all, one week to eat all the food I love, one week to get acquainted with my darling bed. For one thing I really love is my room next to the kitchen, with my solid bed, and my hundreds of books and my well-kept secret. For lots are hidden in here, a broken heart is just in one of the locked drawers, the glorious past is another, and all hope buried in the last one. But alas! The white dressing table is mark for deletion. I have to find a way to save it, for it holds more than memories for me. Probably load it up and carry it back with me. But I'm glad I'm in my room now. Probably I should be back more often. Probably.

It's good to be home.

(6th December 2002)