I think of the demands of people they fill my dreams and I cannot satisfy them. Perhaps they can’t be satisfied. Yet, woken by birds and the light of day that is always sudden, I still hear talking. Being polite’s been overtaken by the demands of sociability. That’s a fact. So why do I find it so hard to get my head around? I mean, now children are to be heard, and not seen, and, I mean, it’s a fact of growing up that we communicate more and more, but, by saying we, I don’t know what I mean. Who, after all, is growing up? If there’s a threshold of respect, I can honestly say I have not crossed it. So the demands turn to insults, with the full meaning the word has of a physical insult, that is worse than an injury. And like the victim of injury, even sleeping I have a sense of shame and harbour it when I am woken. And carry it, like a small broken heart or a bird, hidden in my palm, throughout the day. 23 . 12 . 2021
{ 2021 12 23 }
