November or so, no fire in the grate, only flowers, dead and dry and beautiful. The art by the stairs is unfamiliar, yet the welcoming windows remind me that, while too old for lollipops and too tired for the taunts of the magazines, I am not so alone here as I often am in company. I note the odd smell of the chairs and the curious fear of picking up the wrong hat or the wrong head
But I am not my thoughts
nor the chair in the corner
I will worry at twenty-six minutes past three that I may be alone, or unknown, or afraid, or be numbered among the reprobate, or among those not invited to the Christmas party. For I have spoken to my doubts, now escaping to fantasy islands and fallen moons - she lies unburied still in my oceans, staring back at me without speaking - and I wait for the bus and I wonder if she might be there (she isn't) and I ask myself why are the buses going the wrong way for Thursday, and who's going to pay for it all and what's in it for them?
But I am not my thoughts
nor those of my tormentors
Meanwhile, the voice in the cellar grows quieter - how I worry for him - this re-scripted image introduced once again to his tormenters, too frightened still to speak unless I speak for him, too inadequate to escape even to dystopian dreams or the fears of the false, which, I note, I refuse to embrace, even starting to sing again, even worshipping in the absence of the things which I hope for
For I am not my thoughts
but simply a spectator
Edward Rhodes (2014)
