Confession

There are two lights on in the entire apartment: my bedroom, the living room - here a salon.  In the living room just a tiny lamp - old, ugly some would say.  Still, the room is far from dark although only the first three feet in the circumference of light falling from under its shade are lit well.

There are two lights on, an empty breakfast glass with the residue of this evening’s portion of juice and next to it a partially eaten, mostly picked at, Viennois nature.

I am trying to tell you something vitally important and I know that you not only don’t understand what I’m saying – it remains difficult for me to do that – but you don’t have enough experience to even recognize the urgency in these words.  These words that might for others, simply by their abstract redundancy bear witness: she is removing many barriers to speak. I am trying to open the doors to those tombs inside me, so rarely used and seldom moved. I am, being me: delicate and fearfully honest.

The quartz clock on the wall is marking time ... 1, 2, 3, 4; 1, 2, 3, 4; 1, 2 … and you’re still wondering what the hell I’m talking about and why am I sitting in a half lit room going on about nothing when your questions for stories, details and feeling have been largely unanswered and neglected, in spite of the deluge of words that I’ve submerged you in over the last nine months.  Why this constant abstraction, these vague allusions? Why can’t I just speak, finally say something real?

There are two lights on, an empty orange juice glass, a Viennois nature and the clock continues to dance: 1, 2; 1, 2.

You still don’t see me, and I am exceedingly tired.