Letter Box Laughs

Out of nowhere, I get up. I’m not sure exactly what did it, I try to remember so I can do it again tomorrow. I start to think of all the things I can fill the day. Little ideas flutter by and I try not to catch them too tightly in case they disintegrate into something ugly and undoable. I let a few go by and take comfort in the fact I’ve thought of other things other than the main event. That’s all I have to keep doing. I feel my way habitually along the walls, head rush welcoming me into the day as always. Door handle, wall, light switch, doorway, wall, bathroom door, sink, sit down. Vision lifting back it’s veil as I sit down on the loo. Chin in my hands, elbows on my knee. Up on the ridges of my toes, eyes closing as I wait. I decide to keep my focus vague this morning, poodle through the day, pretend to have a slow morning when realistically my mind is working over-time and some.  I know I won’t have the concentration to watch any television or read, so I’ll more likely, sit and scroll through twitter, move things from room to room. But I’ll disguise it as job searching or research. Research into other people’s outsides, to match them up, side by side with my insides and decide whether I’m doing it right. I can almost hear people in their homes, with buttered toast wafting through air, laughter rippling through mouths and contentment leaking out of letterboxes. Then I hear the silence that I’m in. And I know it’s what I want. I know I like being alone. I know that. I try and remind myself of that, I try and feel that. I step loudly onto the carpeted stairs. Letting the house know I’m up. I get creaky responses, yes, yes, you’re always here, if you go, at least we’ll miss you and will be far more excited to have you back. I groan back. I’m resting. I’m healing. I need more time. You can groan all you like.