A friend asked me the other day if all this work in the city was eating at the soul
I raised my eyebrows, I wouldn't have put that phrase down to reflect my life as it is right now.
I said, "No.", quietly...but I did get to understand why I had been fighting all these days.
At last I understood.
..why the words would only come out laced in a poisonous tree sap, of late
..the words were fighting, without even my knowing it
this habit I've developed of actually speaking what's on my mind at all times has its ups too then?
every time I speak my mind, I start thinking of my ma...of how when I was a kid, she said I didn't have the right to just translate thought into word and spill them..it still feels like a luxury, only meant for some mysterious 'adult' somewhere..
I let that rule go a couple of years back..
it's given me a monotone voice
it's given me a cool, calm in the face of deceit
it's given me a steel edge in the face of bygone lovers
a very queer thing.

I woke this morning, and read a few pages from Joyce, ' A portrait of the artist as a young man',1916
...'To remember that and the white look of the lavatory made him feel cold and then hot. There were two cocks that you turned and water came out : cold and hot. He felt cold and then a little hot : and he could see the names printed on the cocks. That was a very queer thing.'..