I'm lying in my bed. Monday. 6 A.M. Too early to get lost in the foreign day. I close my eyes. My mind is full of unruly strays. Enough. I rise , slowly, and I crawl to the kitchen. My cat is sleeping on the sofa, close to a slick mud that a patient left while she was trying not to pass away. Anaphylaxis. And she was tubercular also. I start coughing and it triggers my hypochondria.
Anyway. 6:15 A.M. Too early for
these frightened eyes. I start cooking pancakes. My home smell like a
home, making me forgot that the people use to come here to die. I live
in an elephant graveyard. I have my breakfast while reading a book by
Ansïs Nin. Sex. The hard kind. Outside it is raining as it only rains
over the tropics.
I'm stereotyping, I know, the rain in
Africa. I know. But walking on a literary path, to live a life that has
been imagined by others, (before I could even tease out what the hell is
the meaning of to live), eases me through difficult Mondays like that.